I have lost count of how many times this has failed me.
You wore white to our funeral. The grief is water,then fire, a sword on my forehead. A bridge through the clouds
too large for our hands. You want to know about my lover?
He is the tide that will not acknowledge the moon,
the hands of a watch that do not want the gears,
when I am washing dishes, he is the sound of a thousand plates
breaking against stainless steel.
It is terrifying, the nervous electricity,
the lifeboat and the teeth of the whale,
even the occasional grace. He is the airplane in the cathedral,
the silver magnetic voice rippling across my skin.
He is the wish, the mistake, the daydream stretching across
my Tuesday afternoon, the 4am blush, the blood in my mouth.
He is my shadow, the physical manifestation
of my inability to remain quiet, stagnant. A slow unfolding
and snapping shut.
You want to know about my lover? Sometimes it is a dream,
sometimes it is implanted so far into the earth, my waking life,
I don’t know how to uproot myself. It is the first time
I have not wanted to uproot myself.
