when your arms are around my waist
when I make coffee in the kitchen
it traces a delicate line around the present.
you never discuss the future with me.
here and now,
not knowing makes me buoyant:
it’s not a thing I’d plan without you
you seem to know the time goes somewhere
but I’m not sure if you’ve seen
the number of future Saturdays
gathering behind my teeth--
our dreams still sleep in separate beds
every task unasks a question
(will your arms circle my waist then and then?
coffee? here, or across oceans? when?)
tomorrows fall upon tomorrows in my soul
suspense, I am always suspended:
a bomb in a spider’s web--
time is building up in me,
will I, I wonder
one day rupture?