The morning after was cold.
I shielded my eyes as the blinds cut
open; scratched glass gives
way to a beautiful summer morning.

Avoiding my pupils at all cost, you
scurry out of bed and mechanically toss
your clothes atop that slender frame
just in time to say,
I should go. I can't disagree.
I haven't the conviction.

The sores on my arm have all but blackened;
bruises beneath the surface of my
skin retell the night like a lost tape:
we came home, we made love,
we rode a euphoric steel railway in a lumpy,
benign mess of an evening.

Now it is morning. Birds are chirping,
children play games in the street.
Light shames to shine on our battered faces.

To place name on faith
is blaspheme—aside from the
faith one names oneself.

The wood-burning fire
resembles a cusp of cloud
set ablaze by faith.

And I said to her
Those lips could tear worlds apart
as she smiled that smile.

I remember your naked body
like it was yesterday,
bending about your bedroom, quiet as
drifting rose petals stripped straight out
of a summer sunset sky.

I remember our naked bodies,
touching in discovery, swimming oceans
between ourselves we never fathomed
into existence; never questioned out of it.
For the first time, I felt at home—at sea.
Innocence no longer played part.

After the crescendo, I saw the clock beside
us on your nightstand. I used it as an excuse.
"I really should leave, it's getting late," knowing
full and well that she could see right through it,
right through me. I lept through the doorway,
sparing a look back, parting with my shame.

I got home and ate pizza with my family.
My mother and father chuckled about a newscaster.
My brother and I bickered about housework.
I went to my room after dinner and collapsed on my bed.
I wept as my eyes surrendered to darkness.

I am lost at sea—and so is she.

There was the moon
and then there were the stars,
so bright and boisterous,
far away from us. Less familiar.

We were always looking up. Be it
the stars or the moon in the night sky
we always found a way to stir up
some trouble under the endless
cover of darkness.

There was the moon
and then there were the stars.

We loved the former because
it was close, reliable, beautiful, serene.
We loved the latter because
it was adventurous—you couldn't
fit your small fingernail on it.

We loved what passed. We remember.
All the stars are gone. Now there is darkness.
Nothing to light the way home
but memories and kerosene.

Cupid sang about sunbeams
and blooming grapevines before
darting a single arrow in either
of our directions—I suppose

he knew better. I suppose it was
all part of the Master Plan, because
if there wasn't a plan then what's
the point of planning a *******
thing anytime, anywhere. There

isn't one. It was written that I'd
meet you. Shakespeare said something
tragic about it, but he certainly never
felt what I felt. Not like this. The feeling
of loss is never familiar. You are talking

underwater without a snorkel or air
to pray with. Cupid never misses, that's
part of the plan. But maybe, ever so
often, he hits the wrong people right
in the ***, and forgets to pull the arrow out.