On the scales of desire, your absence weighs more
than someone else’s presence, so I say no thanks
to the woman who throws her girdle at my feet,
as I drop a postcard in the mailbox and watch it
throb like a blue heart in the dark. Your eyes
are so green – one of your parents must be
part traffic light. We’re both self-centered,
but the world revolves around us at the same speed.
Last night I tossed and turned inside a thundercloud.
This morning my sheets were covered in pollen.
I remember the long division of Saturday’s
pomegranate, a thousand nebulae in your hair,
as soldiers marched by, dragging big army bags
filled with water balloons, and we passed a lit match,
back and forth, between our lips, under an oak tree
I had absolutely nothing to do with.
I wanted to know you, not half know you. I wanted to know if I could love you, if you would let me, if there could be an honesty between us. I know I can only confess this once, or maybe twice, for we are nothing, were nothing, and memories are more sacred the quieter you keep them. There are things I know and love: the taste of jasmine tea flowering on my tongue, undoing the hairpins at night and letting my hair tumble down piece by piece, the sky in all its iterations, candles burning blessings until they are a puddle of wax in a sand circles, kisses between my shoulder blades. You are not one of these, known and beloved, though I imagine perhaps. Had we started earlier, had you tried harder.
I know history. There are many names in history/but none of them are ours.