it rained the day after Christmas and
you said you’d prefer snow.
it reminded me of London
so I kept my mouth shut and pushed your hands
further between my legs.
“eat my pineapple,” I instructed
as the rum coated my tongue.
“carry me through
the tiki bar and do pushups in the empty
space while I brush my lips on your temple.”
we were married on the corner
of Queen and Dunn;
our officiant on one knee, clad in blue knit
I
never thought I’d be here.
across oceans you recessed
further into my insomniac brain.
your eyes are green, right?
turn around:
it’s less romantic if there’s no eye contact.
track our distance across my sternum --
I’ve never been to Azerbaijan.
I took advantage of the fact that you were wearing black
and forgot to outline my
shape in chalk.