This was supposed to be the poem I wrote without any reference to
my love for you, but it seems the only pretty things
I can say are about us.
I question what you have never wondered about, but
somehow I wonder because of you.
How is it that we survived last summer’s big rainstorm without an
umbrella, and were motionless under it
until you shook me so I would remember to breathe.
Thinking
I have never slid my arm into a man’s sweater when I got cold,
put the other sex’s fabric around my body,
would have been nice that night.
But it could not have been so bad. I peeled my wet clothes off
like a tease, wishing that somehow you
could be watching me through the closed bathroom stall.
Soon
I don’t know if it was you or the blankets
that swallowed my hips, as if being inserted underground,
I just know that six hours later I woke up sore from feeling so safe.
From you, I learned that no one can rewind seasons
to take back mean words or return pine trees their old cones
and the next time you call
I should thank you for telling me what you have for breakfast each
morning, what you make for dinner and midnight snacks.
