He thanked me like a mother finding
her lost child, could not even kiss me back he felt so
relieved. I did not want to be
the one to ask if he remembered how it felt
for us to become distant and alone, even together
because I knew now
an idea he had about fidelity. He said he believed he
could be faithful to both of us in our special,
different ways. Neither existed in
writing as more than “she” or “her” or “mine”
but now he cannot kiss me. He liked it better when I
was a sculpture he was familiar with every
arch of, he liked it better when
I was in his left pocket and she was there in the right.
He thanked me because he is so happy he
still has something to empty out
of his jeans before the wash. This is a feeling of
release, not solid enough for me to let go of his hand.