I think perhaps our first was not at the beginning.  You crept down my throat and settled there.  

You tasted my words before I did myself, the acidity rooted strongly in liquid letters.  

I fell asleep with a river of thought pouring from my eyes and onto your skin without realizing what you were to take.  

Not me seriously, in any case.

Our first was a whisky kick

***** in someone’s bath

A screaming silence

I, game player and you, changer.  You had ringed your wrists in neon colours and anchored them to my lips.  

Bind my breath to your cells so that I will know what I look like, to you.  

You are in love with the idea of being in love,

Dear someone.

I have written countless poems.

I have buried you in the open space

Between every M and P

So that every ‘oh’ sounds off,

onomatopoeiaic.  Our last was your realization as I came to terms with our first.  The same.  You are listening to music again.  You are falling asleep again.  You are silent,

Again.

I am counting my fingers to tell how many muscles I will exert to let you know.  It is not that I confine to syllables but that they are confining me.  It is not mystery I strive for.  

Dear someone,

Our first was our only

Our last, not so

Dear someone,

I do not love you—

I am not sorry