It was the night your hands lingered in the pockets of your coat.
You didn’t reach out and touch me,
didn’t offer a hand to say hello.
You sipped from the flask in your pocket,
told me how you really enjoyed the book,
and that Kafka was one of the great
theologians of our time.

You pointed out constellations I couldn’t see,
and talked about Dante like you’d
been having lunch.
You impressed me with your knowledge of
what makes a grilled cheese good,
and remembered that it was my favorite food.

We drank dark beers, I let you tell me a story
I had already heard.
I laughed at it again, like it was new.

Your cigarette hung from your mouth so effortlessly,
I wanted to pluck it from between your lips,
light it, and take a long drag.

I wanted to lean out into the universe around us,
interrupt space and take those
cigarette lips into mine.

I watched your hands ring around themselves,
knuckles swollen and tight.
A scar puckering the skin above your thumb--

We walked by the river,
I asked if you like to swim.
You laughed.

Did you think I meant to do it now?
Peel off my clothes one by one,
hoist myself up on the ledge,
creamy, unpuckered white skin glowing
under the pale moon.

I would have done it.
I would have dived.

Taken one small leap and
sunk my lonely body in that mud;
gritty and ,
the clay
of the Earth clouding the water,
soot settled down around me.

I would have done it,
I would have jumped if you only
told me you liked to swim.