I speak about you to the somnolent dust.
It is the first love story it hears;
it whirls about upon my breath
and settles again, as it always does.
The dust –
it could be the afterthought of our very skin,
exfoliated by the friction of our
Augusts, Septembers, and Octobers,
shaken off the bed sheets
when our own shared heat sufficed.

I worried then about sincerity,
and yet I laugh about it now,
tracing back oblique references
to those early dawns we woke to,
drawn to the surface of that vast ocean –
consciousness –
by each others’ restless bodies,
legs intertwining, dreams colliding.
Didn’t I know it was real?
I could reach for you anytime.
You, with your loose ends,
your beautiful recalcitrance,
your flawed sagacity;
was I right to worry?
Young as we are, our years are infinite
and simultaneously disproportionate because
this, us,
is so much of our lives
and barely anything at all.
You were my anchor, and I learned,
from you and with you,
how to avoid drifting,
but also how to drown and
be dragged to the bottom of the ocean.
But I regret nothing.

I am sad for old people who do little and
sit in musty rooms or half-light and
can hardly move;
arthritis of everything,
extending everywhere.
Is that what you want?
You had today and every day to learn
how it feels to fall from a height,
and all I wanted was to float –
not even fly, not up beyond those
dreamt-up boundaries –
and slowly touch down, feet light,
steady.
I wanted to look back at where I came from,
where and when it was that I
adopted the properties of a feather.
Haven’t you been watching the birds?

What was it you said?
“I’m not going to lie and say we are
perfect
but every time I saw our
reflection in the train cars I
thought about the people around us and
reflected on the type of connection we have and
how different it is.
We absolutely hate each other,
it just scarcely shows because
we both love each other more.”
And I nod.
“When did it happen?
I remember all of it and none of it at once.”
Everything was so right,
a blinding, dazzling show of
truth.
It was one of those hours,
and your voice was truer than gravity.
The landscape was without this great divide,
this enormous cleavage,
these sharp edges.
I want to fill all of it with myself
and invite you to jump.

We should revisit old places,
converse with our memories a little bit.
I believe I left all that out in the snow somewhere.
I would break into the snow a million times,
my face red and my hair wet,
the snow biting against my ribs,
just to know something again –
to know, to know.
What wasn’t left to thaw come spring
is now just bones, and
small ants carrying away the rest.

I’m sorry;
I am a thief in so many ways,
a liar in a million different nuances.
Stop.
Stop asking me to betray us further.
I will rest here, heavy,
remembering the window so full of day and
you and I and everything, our moments –
all and everything.
I am always stopping along the path to
look at something small and dead.
The pigeon on the sidewalk,
you on the phone,
listening soundlessly.
You said once that the way I always
look at the ground before me as I walk
means something.
What is that?

These days I don’t notice when the sun is up.
I search for something to awake to in deeper places.