My father gathered tinder from outside
and left the fire burning
as he disappeared upstairs.
My mother said goodnight.

Her fleece followed her
like Charlie Brown
away and up to bed.

The  cheap green leather
where I sat
felt shiny and thin
and big enough for two.

My other half I imagined
tucked up and dreaming of me
wrapped as one
and breathing in her breath.

There’s something in the fire wood
side by side
two twigs have met
in flaming consumation.
All that remains is death.

When I say, do you feel me?
I'm not meaning in a literal sense.
Get your hands off of my mindset.

these things are best written about later,
when you could be anyone, and I can lie
(as heartsick yet composed narrator)
about small things, like *'I really tried.'

now I'm a shipwreck in a sundress,
an aimless, shameless coquette –
a first kiss, a second guess,
a weak and wobbly pirouette.