Sundays and we start again
slowly, stretching like a morning prayer
into the highrise of this city day
& we are silent, blurry-eyed and edged with near-regret
over the ficklness of Saturday’s dreams:

those moments when life stilled beneath the street lights
on the corner by your apartment
& the world split wide as we saw each other clearly
(yes that bit about a summer wind rifling thru
was such a shivered lie — but i’m sure you already knew)
and oh you’ve always been so good at holding things
like hands & gazes
so when i remembered to breathe and tore my eyes away
i lost all my secrets
(such a wordless crash of mirrors and hearts)

and you did nothing but watch them fall,
slipping and shimmering over the concrete
like tiny silver fish, my glittering undoing
bare for all the world (are there others than you?) to see
as people without faces hurried by like shadows
and i saw no one but you, quiet in the pale light
standing somewhere between desire & indifference,
the tired glow of a cigarette burning like a blemish
on your perfect lips.

midnight failed me, such a relentless thief
stealing all i’d left to say & loosening my ties
leaving me wrestling with romance as if it were a numbers game
(he loves you on the 1st, if he has any heart at all)
and wouldn’t you know,
i’ve never been good at keeping score.

but you are here,
and that is something (what is it, then?)
in itself

the easy way we’ll slip on shoes
to rediscover each other in these heatwave streets
my smile as guileless as a California sky,
your short laugh bruising my sunny side
and when they stop to stare you’ll grab my hand
& justlikethat, we’re more than fine.

photo by michelle poeung