Do you remember how thin the light was
in December?
Creeping in a shade of honey
gloss across our faces as we laid upon
the hardwood floor?
Yes, didn’t it box us in so closely?
That night when the world granted us awareness
of each others presence
in this life?
Like shaking minors who know not how
to use their bodies
for fear of ruining a moment preserved
from the gazes of their tiny eyes.
And didn’t we speak of all those characters
with bowler hats?
Or our zeal for crooked heros, or how fucking right
Bukowski always is?
No, I did not go,
but listened to the pressing of our ribcages;
the soft crackle of our bones against the wood.
No, I did not leave—
ever from these ideas met in novels
of what love could really be
if ever we tried to apply it.
No, I am here and you are here
and together we knew that a night
when the light encompasses and stands
upright like fire is a time to say
yes.
And won’t it be funny?
In times passing and every December after
the next, the wooden floors
will show their age and the light
may it be a different shade of color
afterwards.
But, won’t there always be
a story on our table?
And a mug for me
waiting near the french press
when I wake up
after you?