“Abielle” by Mariah Thomas


What’s left of me condenses from
vapor into the folds of your skin-
the inner elbow crease, where if I
cup my mouth I can feel your pulse

so I exhale
just a little bit
of eupnoea

to make the beat glow.
If you get close enough without touching,
you can feel the warmth of blood just underneath,
sometimes you can even fucking hear it.

I hear it, I hear it when you’re far away,
I hear it when you look at the back of my head,
and I feel you bite my tongue;
I can taste what you’re thinking.


Mariah Thomas is a writer who lives in Kansas City. She studied creative writing at UMKC and is fascinated by lust, Patsy Cline and what it means to be a person. She has never learned to cook.

Featured image by Joshua K. Jackson

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