In another world, your mouth would have been on mine
by now. So much rain is in our bodies, so many exhalations
poured from one chest into another;
when we kissed our tongues became knives.
I used to find your hair stuck in the shower drain,
ten ringlets wet and dark.
I tell my friends about your thighs, how they tremble
when I touch their dimples.
How they open and close like scissors.
Alaska is so big that I’m afraid even my love for you
wouldn’t fill it. What voids we hold.
Landfills, all of them. You only text me sober;
you’re not a courteous drunk.
But holding you in my arms that one night
during the thunderstorm was equivalent
to drunk driving: we moved so hard
and so fast that it’s a wonder we didn’t fall
off the roof. When I fell for you, though,
I did fall off the roof. Metaphorically speaking.
No, I take that back-fell off the cliff,
off the tallest mountain, down the elevator shaft.
Fell through your fingers as they circled
my spine. You’re the only thing
I was ever good at.