You Shouldn't Have - Trina Wood

You shouldn’t have called that late afternoon to ask if I wanted to come over and work on a few prints, the ones you took of my belly pushed taut, outlines of a foot nearly poking through ivory skin. You shouldn’t have brushed closely against my back, hairs rising on my neck in response to your smell, the warmth of your breath on my shoulder. You shouldn’t have run downstairs to bring up an icy cold pilsner to quench my thirst on that warm late summer night, so smooth running down my throat, memories of standing near the edge of Tenaya Lake, listening to spirit voices on the wind travel over the water and rocks in front of us, sharing a beer at the end of a tiring day. You shouldn’t have told me I deserved more than what I had, more attention, more time, more loving, they should have been given to me in abundance and I began to mourn their loss. You shouldn’t have reached over the beer I held clutched in front of my chest to taste the foam on my lips, to open the reaches of your mouth, slight bitter sweet, to pull the resistance out from my body through the opening where my tongue searched for reassurance, hungry in its longing.