I.

If we could be quiet in the small spaces,

maybe they would make excuses for us.

Our bodies, forgiven only once in a while.

We look in the mirror, see dualities of ourselves

and ask them to break. I like the glass between us.

II.

My fingers turn purple in the cold. I think of it

as an invited bruise. Your lips stay blue in the

pool, call it summer. We have learned to be apart

from each other. I haven’t touched you since the time

you said goodbye to me, my hands in yours

through the car window. I watch you go,

feel the pull start again.

III.

I water the plants when I don’t forget.

Some have drunk up the sun, the roses

crumple before they can even bloom.

I think about the thing inside me.

Any soft organ, ready to break.

IV.

We would like to fall apart. Every other day,

we become too tired to hold our heads up.

I can’t fathom you other than how I have

reached for you. Bodies, punctuated by

night, by something beyond an end.