Has anyone else found it ironic that we
cross our fingers not just for luck but also to break promises?
You were crossing your fingers when we first made eye contact,
pressed close to your thigh like you were holding on
to all the secrets I never bothered to hide.
Your hands were webbed with razor blades. We didn’t talk about it.
I hid my face behind mirrors for you to blow smoke against.
We always danced a foot apart. Neither of us wanted
to walk away with scars, but if Pixar has taught us anything,
it’s that we don’t always get what we want.
I don’t remember if I wanted your crossed fingers to be lucky or not,
but you aren’t superstitious unless we’re wishing on stars.
I’ve found that I only write poems when I’m not in love,
so I’m sorry that every word is about you.
I can still feel your hand in mine, digging until you were
in my bloodstream, collecting every atom of oxygen in me
until I couldn’t breathe without you.
That wasn’t cool, dude,
because now I’m drowning and crossing my fingers for you.
I want to break every single promise that I ever swore to keep for you.
Come back soon.
We’ve got unfinished business to attend to, but
you’ve been hovering on the opposite wall of this ballroom,
and I know that you’re scared of inflicting wounds
but my hands are calloused and thickened by scar tissue,
so come dance with me.
I have secrets to tell you.