Tell me about the day our hip bones
said hello.

Your eyebrows curved
like cupped hands,
how that was more than I’d expected,
how the hope bleeding through your fingers
stained my temples when you touched them.

You believe and it makes me want
to build you a skylight,
sunk in the rafters like a baby tooth
peering shyly from dark gums,

my heart is a broken down *****
but you play it just right.

You’ve got the body of a musician and
there’s something beautiful about your
skeleton being on display,
your shoulders are blades
and they cut right through me.  

I was a safety deposit box,
holding things that were not mine.
I was springtime in New England,
all baited anticipation and lasting chill.

You are an Arizona rainstorm.
You are moisture in the desert, thunder in the silence,
utterly unprecedented warmth.

I have been many things, but never once
enough.