I told her I was lonely,
and she laughed and told me to go home and use a vibrator.
It’s been that kind of
day month year it’s been a while.
But, and forgive my nostalgia, but my life used to be so much more than that.
Love was an adventure I did not expect to end.
Faces as focal points of memories that linger like film stills.
"This is him, October, sitting in the stair-well."
"This is him, at the airport, crying."
But this isn’t about him. Or anyone after.
This is about now, and how I long for wrinkles in my sheets, twisting and curving and new everyday, another map to read, another world in which to be lost.
This is about intimacy, and how I’m not sure what that means anymore, but I know what I want it to mean:
I want to know whether you insist
on magnificently golden marshmallows
(or let them burn, & like them black)
I want to know the most comforting sound in the world
To your ears.
How do you end phone conversations with your mother?
What is your opinion on placemats? And coasters?
What makes you feel old?
I want to know the angles at which
your eyebrows furrow when
you’ve made a very bad mistake.
I want to know what you smell like when
(And , yes, I want to know what you smell like when you’ve been
I want to know which side you peel bananas from.
What you sleep in.
When you stopped believing in God.
Your favourite word.
(But the worst part is)
I want to be known that way too.