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.”