Love, most days      I dangle you 

      from my      breath like an ache,      punctuate 

my words      with your sadness. Love, 

          the sky is a dizzy grey      as you watch me 

               with your half-     moon eyes, 

          standing in the      doorway in a t-shirt. 

Your           aphelion, love, the parts      of 

          my soul that are      always hungry 

     and never silent.      When we first           met I 

still      believed in souls, still      had an 

                   underbite.            I broke my mouths

     against rough      bits of septum, you 

                held my hand      and I found a      universe 

          in my own thumbprint.      Love, the hands 

     that God gave you      can touch      two lives 

at once,      never mine.      These days

                you keep telling me      I can’t clothe 

myself           in ghosts, in      marigold kitchens 

               washed in morning’s glory.      We’ll forget 

          how we lay on the train tracks      all night. 

How you      covered my body in      stars, 

     telescopes still humming—          love, I’ll love 

     the mangled bits of you      in the morning. 

I’ll dream           embrasure, mottled flowers      in 

               my periphery, forbidden      fruit. 

          I’ll dream you      in the same doorway: 

how do I unlove you now?      Obsessed      with form, 

     as always. You will ask      if I am tired. You 

               will ask      if this hurts      as I thumb 

          the plum in my heart; it      welds to me; do not 

                    let it spoil.      I fester.   I ache.