I see with my eyes closed
the warmth of your skin
if you just stop punishing
yourself.
And since we’re here,

I press on your shoulders
like boulders sinking and
tearing the earth’s surface once
they reach ocean’s bottom.

Is that why you flinch
at the tap?
Is that why your bruised knuckles
rap over the mantelpiece
and you snap, like a twig
stepped on by a fallen bird
learning the difference
Between fly and drop?
Won’t you let me
close the gap
between used items on your
mantelpiece and
other ones still wrapped?

I don’t do this all the time.
There is no occasion.
But since we’re here,
since we’re in front of
a fireplace, I look for an opening.
Something, a hole,
a soft mushy layer on
your body not a glacier
like everything else.
And I wait for it to melt.

Since we’re here,
maybe it’s time to
trust me.

Remember that?
Saturday.
When we woke up
before the alarm rang.
You told me that
when you were a kid
your cousin said,
“You’re supposed to tear
through the wrapping paper
when you receive a gift because
that builds the surprise.”

I felt some massive force
pull me out of body, an astronaut
****** out of an airlock when you said,
“I’ve never tried that.”

You remember that?
Of course I do.
Why’d you mention that?
I want to.
Since we’re here.
We better.