You look at the streetlight like a falling star,
Heavy in the way your hands felt
Laying on my chest.
“There’s something beautiful about the city, you know,” you say.
I look out over your shattered home,
A sprawling suburb that repeats itself into infinity
And i can feel, faintly, your heartbeat
Like a broken record.
And I fail to see it. I shrug.
I am blind in a way you are not.
“Not sure I get it.”
You lean your head against my shoulder,
Beating against your fragile ribcage
Like a drum marching into war.
“I guess I’ve always had an eye for that sort of thing.”
Is that an insult? I wonder, briefly,
but I’m not sure its worth the breath
You stole from me to ask,
And i dont want to rifle through
your deep pockets to find it.
“Yeah. I guess you have.”
You look at me with eyes the color of rich chocolate.
I wonder if you notice the first time you step on an anthill.
I know I didn’t.
The lake looks, from this far away,
Like a fractured mirror,
Its edges curving and winding the way yours do.
I think about swallowing the bile
Rising in my throat and kissing you,
But i could never break the tension of the water
Without bringing the avocets down
On my outstretched hand.
It was never your fault,
And i wish i could slip your fingers
Through my ribs to show you myself.
“Have I done something wrong?”
I shake my head. “God, darlin, I hope not.”