and it's ours because
it was for both of us,
and I really wonder who has the time
to catch us each up in an arm
and love us until our bones break,
because we are fighters,
because we were runners since the day we were born.
I come home to find
you've made a grotto of the room
and soaked it in wine.
Red dew should be running down the furniture,
the air is so heavy.
You've left Chris Martin on the airwaves and I strip
for the bright light, for the steam rising
from construction across the street out the window.
You are asleep and too sweet to wake.
The night says this is the day for something momentous
leave the country, toss myself off the balcony.
Nude photos. A note left on the counter miles away.
You laugh in your sleep, drunk.
I swallow the rest of your bittersweet cup
--you've put the bottle on the sill to stick a flower in tomorrow,
with the rest--
and gather your dishes.
forget but not forgive