Someday
you will come to understand me
and you will love me less.

Lost will be the urgency to see my face every day
then my openness is such as a wound:
nevertheless, no stitching
at dusk can be finished by dawn.

I thought this skin belonged to you
but, god, I never let it

by fearing
sentences would get lost in your ocean waves or
airplane wings or bad phone reception.

So came three years
and someone’s city change, came cattle
the rooster feathers casing one eye in case she
needs her consciousness early.

You told me to appreciate that and now I do
I wake up every morning before you

I never fall asleep
because something seems to find a key to
my chest and I lose my breath.

But still you can see that I never take my dress off
pretty ones with bells and whistles
and pockets for your hanky, when I lay

and you will begin to wonder why I never relax
and you will ask

I say:
(god, I did not really want you to
breathe my air.)

I fear you understanding, and I fear you will not.