Silhouettes

Alone in your room I touch
panties drying on the heater,
think about your hands on my
hands on your hips. I open your
medicine cabinet, count bottles
of fingernail polish, look at
rings nestled in the corner
quiet like pebbles. The pictures
of your friends in the kitchen,
all in soft clothes, they smile easy.
Their hair tussled. Many people
love you. This makes me happy.
I want to love all the people
who love you. I want to give them
sweaters. I want to make you
laugh gently in front of them.
I want them to see you look
at me. I want to listen closely.
In your closet is a meteor
of clothes. I lie in your bed
and bite my nails. You'll never
find them. Your clothes meteor
is sexy. It makes your closet
feminine. Turns me on.
I don't like the taste
of your toothpaste. I will
still use it. I drink unfiltered
water from your tap. Lukewarm
tap water reminds me of you,
your apartment, morning sun
on your kitchen table, the
desperate space that enormous
table creates between us, ripening
fruit, an origami fortune
teller, a sculpture of a single wing, the setting
for the first time
I said I love you, to you.
The refrigerator motor kicks
on and the overhead light
flickers. I imagine your parted
lips under my thumb. I remember
sitting at that unforgivable
table, heartbroken, I couldn't reach
you, lips sealed, suffocating under
the burden of your insufferable charm.
Out the windows are hungry squirrels
and honking cars, empty
beer bottles, the cuffs to my
jeans wet and matted.
A siren is moving away
from us. A charm on your
necklace. An easel in an
art store, a running faucet,
a saucer of blueberries, slivered
light under a closed door,
the sound of handwriting, the allowance
of outside objects and inside
objects. a voice. This corner holds
me. This corner is infinite.

ER