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I count the years,
One kneeling finger at a time,
Each orbit closing my fist further.
You’re turning 26 in four days and
I have to pretend I don’t remember this.
I have to pretend I don’t know
The time and place you were born.
I have to pretend I don’t remember
The way you’d abuse the stars
To tell me that you loved me,
That I was crazy.
I count the years,
Finally seven,
And sleep soundly knowing
You have never touched me.
How many times is too many, too close?
Twice?
Just enough.
The moon is leaky and the breeze is hot.
You say she has warmer hands and whiter teeth.
I say there’s a snake in the grass,
Sliding under our picnic blanket,
Erupting glass and porcelain.
I dream that she thinks about me, sometimes,
Just on the eclipse, and regrets it all.
You dare me to tell you so I do it.
I call you a bullet.
Too much too fast.
Something to be dodged or dug out of wounds later
If you’re not quick enough.
Hard to look away from — even harder to see.
Silver and shining.
Is that enough for you? I ask. You tell me you hate poetry —
I tell you it’s explication.
Could my love be any clearer?
I would let you sit in my gut and turn me green
If only you’d pierce me.
