This is love
I had to stop painting my piano fingers
the next day they’d be stained acrylic, or worse, ink.
Instead with clear inked nails I sit comforted
by the nonstop clickclickclick of keys — well, your keys
I always think too loud to type.
moonchild— I’m supposed to be:
streaked with lightning,
sheltered by the bus stop in memories of spring
days with clothes sticking wet
and a plethora of me too’s.
you don’t like the cold, and me, well, I hate it less than you do,
but I think we both don’t mind it
when we are fuzzy with wine and good company,
questioning love and death and what a kiss is
I feel such a fire inside, the breeze can’t cut me.
I like being on buses with you
because we’ve been on so many
and I’ve never been bored even when you easily slip into sleep.
I can watch the sky slip by, until the moon leaves me
when we get there we will only be bathed in light.
I can’t sleep sometimes
homesick for a home that’s not a place
for words not laced with plastic kindness
you call asking about my insomnia, if I'm eating
my mouth’s bittersweet after each talk to you later.
you mock me for liking lollipops
but I know you would buy me a boxful if I ran out.
I hate the waiting game that our lives have become
until everythingoes and comes back and we
always yearn the taste of the ocean.
there is a to-be-broken ashtray sitting on my shelf
in all its smugness, expectant.
every time we make eye contact I make an excuse
wait a bit more I say, making tea for us
my fairy lights flicker with fatigue.
This is the third set of lights I’ve bought
already they’re counting the days till their deathbed
but the sky tastes divine
under stars and swirling silvers
and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.