Love is a sneaky little vampire
that knows more language than words
yet does not hear no.
Sorry for being vulnerable,
I guess. Sorry for leaving
my shoes at your house,
sorry for kissing you again
and again, sorry for the birthday wishes.
In New Hampshire,
birds would smash into our living room
window, and I would bury their tiny bodies
in flowers from the backyard.
Now, if a thing dies,
all I can do is miss it. There is nothing pretty
to cover it up with.
This must be what comes afterwards.
When the bed turns cold and there is space
everywhere. I am pregnant with my solitude,
it is the warmest thing I know.
I would prefer the before.
When it was mischief and fucking
and we hadn't introduced the word maybe
into our dialogue.
Yes, I would want you,
but only if you were as brave as the bird,
as kind as the wildflowers. Capable
of being more human
than not.
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