Poem: Every song is a cliché

It’s the softest of touches, the things that just come to you without reason.
It’s the looks that we give each other in the dark, it’s the whispers
its either the precipice or the downfall of things, but does it matter?
its haikus in other languages, an overwhelming obsession with laughter
no explanations, or not too much thought, opting instead
To be swept along by the voices of far away promises, stupid jokes,
a comfortable proximity, an internal chuckle...

Now there are these fleeting moments, where all I can think about is how hungrily he touched my body, how greedily he bit my skin, how it set my pulse on fire;
All I can think about is breathing.
How breath became the language in which we spoke, in which we begged.
The warmth of that breath on my neck, below my ear, that’s all I can think about.

And now it follows me around, it lives in my head, and inside every photo
Every song is a clichéd memory of some sweet moment that’s been shared by a million lovers, a million times, in a million places, each with different smiles.
This one, however, is a reminder of mine.