that first photograph, where i was mesmerized by the curve of your
lips around a simple french fry; that, and the way your voice sang,
back before you chained your soul. and the way our hands laced,
(did you know i haven’t forgetten the feel of your fingers?) graceful,
elegant, sculpted for piano keys. we’d laugh because you never
learned to play. (i wanted you to swear you would for me.)

the faulty start and stop of go that we never had between us,
petrified me while teaching you to drive my car. i’d never tell you
i learned in two days what my poor clutch suffered weeks
under your two left feet.

the comfort you instilled by just physically being you-
did you know that i could sleep beside you? did you
understand what that meant to me? i can never drift off

when my hand first fell in your lap, and i felt time pause,
an accidental second. and i breathed again, a shaky breath
of unknown longing, when you picked it up.

you are so tall, and your stride and height magnified by
a trench-coat is a site so achingly familiar to the inside of
my heart that i can barely keep my eyes down in passing by.

and i remember nothing from the night you told me
you’d never sing for me again. i can look across the hall,
but i can never stand at your side. you have adorned
me with silver gifts, and i can play you copper-wound
rifts, but you won’t hear them anymore.

i have never seen the fog so thick. condensation settles,
as low as it can go. i longingly wish to achieve its heights.


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