I once wished
that we first met as friends, rather than
lovers,
that I knew your tongue
rolling against your teeth to
speak something honest before I felt it curling
around my skin.
Ever since,
I have tried to stay separate – I wanted
to paint portraits of the
earth, of luminaries and geodes,
but every picture looks like my body after sex
with you,
little crystals of you
cornering the emptiest parts of me.
I part as a flower blooms,
two years
and I realize I must believe in falling stars
now.
