CW: vomiting

I almost threw up

in your upstairs

bathroom sink

just now,

the morning after

you grabbed my face

and kissed me, hard,

a decade of build up

collapsing.

Last night

I melted into your

spare bed and your arms

while our hands –

truly no strangers –

gripped everything

within reach,

your hand under my

shirt, my hand in

your curls, our mouths

desperate from

literal years of longing.

This morning, I am gagging

on my toothbrush

again, scared to stain

what isn’t yet

mine.

SG Huerta is a Chicane writer from Dallas. They are the author of the chapbook The Things We Bring with Us: Travel Poems (Headmistress Press, 2021), and their work has appeared in Split Lip Magazine, Infrarrealista Review, Variant Lit, and elsewhere. They live in Texas with their partner and two cats. Find them at sghuertawriting.com or on Twitter @sg_poetry.