I think it was that moment
between the look and the kiss
that triggered the highlight reel
of a thousand seconds
broken up between some years,
filtered through a kaleidoscope,
vaguely narrating familiar tales of one
of the world's strangest phenomenons
by language of wet mouths,
pools of dead stars swallowing our irises,
and the sensations left behind from
the brushing of hands so subtle,
you could never tell whether it really happened,
or if it was just the anticipation;
and I guess the best excuse I got
for why I can't remember any of it,
is because I never really forgot about it.

I felt my pulse stutter when I spoke of you
long before I met you, back when
I was marooned on the Island
with a bunch of sourpusses some years ago,
who told me it would have taken
a pipeline chilled on dry ice (with a faucet installed)
for all the people in Hell who want iced water,
and a meteor the size of Mauna Loa
tearing through every layer
of realistic expectations to discover you.

and that the meteor would still end up
the size of a gumball by the time
it hit the pavement, and the first drop of water
would get to the ****** warm as ****,
and they almost had me convinced,
crossing fingers and predicting meteor showers
before I learned of you by name,
swore Hell's patrons could stay parched
for all I cared, and headed west for forty-two miles
until I found you in a part of the Island
where those sore losers must've never bothered to look.

since then, I've made a list of reasons
why nothing's felt more profoundly simple
and beautiful to me than each instance
where I could have sworn your signals synced with my pulse.
and they're all worth explaining, but I've grown
more timid at twenty-two, and mostly stare
at the bottle of Magic Hat, the roof of the shed,
the scruff on your upper-lip or the creases in your shoes,
just to avoid making eye-contact
(though you don't seem to mind it.)

speaking of then, back at the shed,
when you were tapping your foot
to one of Twain's records, I was going to mention
something about how I love the sound
hard-heeled shoes make when they click against vinyl,
tile and hardwood floors, because it's soothing to me—
the same way the tone in your voice was
when you saw the Sour Belts on the candy rack,
when you thanked the gas station clerk
on the way out, told me you were having fun,
and softly brushed my hand
before you asked to borrow my lighter;
it's just a sound I adore.

though I wouldn't clarify whether I meant
the click of heels or the sound of your voice,
because I know it's going to sound silly either way,
so I speak to you in Morse code
and send the signals to myself
to remember there are things that
will always mean more than
they probably really do—

to you, to the world, to the psychic
who guaranteed simplicity and tenderness
for me when I was nineteen, and
probably laughed her way to the bank,
bought a gumball-sized rock on a silver ring,
and will be in stitches by the time she gets to Hell
to buy a round for the ******* underground
who are placing bets that I might be wrong about you,
and that I'll lose your signal soon
whether or not I want to.

I protect my heart
because I don't trust my sternum
to be man enough to take the impact
of circumstances such as car crashes,
or rejection, or crippling disappointment.
and if there's a pain to be felt
from never feeling vulnerable—
I've thought about it time and again,
but mostly I keep busy, feeding my heart
lemon meringue and poetry,
to distract it while I fortify the ramparts,
so I don't have to pay attention

to whether it hurts or frees me,
to make that first move,
that the stories say lead to a kiss
or a long-awaited confession
that's probably never been more
than a stupid pipe-dream anyway
that's made Hollywood trillions of dollars
selling false promises and popcorn,
and has made fools like me
embarrassed and dizzied on their loveseats

ignoring the sight of the vacant spot
in their peripherals by waking and baking,
over-polishing apples, and counting floorboards—
tuning in to old jazz and blues
to counter the dead quiet of the living room,
pinching sugar between their fingers
to counter the bitter taste of the coffee
that they ******* hate drinking,
but it gives them something to do,
something warm to cradle in their palms
when Fridays alone start to feel pathetic.

and while I make plans to hear a voice
or see a face that I miss, and let my hair
fall over my shoulders tangle-free,
polish up my smile, and freshen up my favorite jacket
with a shot of dragon's blood and sandalwood,
my shoes stay where I left them a week ago,
and I never follow through with that phone call.

I'm the protector of my heart,
because I know no one else
is looking out for it more than their own,
and it's worth the risk of being unkissed,
as long as my sternum stays whole,
and that small, red empire not left jaded,
and my pride still intact.

and noticing that much
is enough to remind me that
all of this only amounts
to meteoric chances and happenstances,
so even the worst of it will come to its end—
and maybe that just has to do
with the optimistic sap in me.

But even then, you greet me
“Good morning,” and I hear you,
and you sound like you're of the Sun
touching through the barricades of Woodbury,
where the undead ******* can't touch us.

And you buffer the cold of the wind
and the wet of the rain
when the kindling is too soaked
to start a fire big enough
to counter the draft
coming from under the doors,
or dry our jackets by the fireplace.

Which probably sounds like naivety,
but even after Woodbury rots from the inside out,
and we lose the car and our last can of beets
somewhere during our escape, and the rest of the way,
we're joking about the way things were
before they got worse, while hypothesizing
about the fall of man, epidemics and expiration dates
to forget the endless hills aching our feet, I could tell you:

“Sure, I mean, there are ten-thousand ways
the world can go to **** (and it probably has,)
and I might not live to one-hundred-three,
but if the world's gonna burn on me now,
it's always better watching with you.”

for carpet-burns along my spine,
for tender lovebites served with
holes and tears in my t-shirt
that I'll shyly play with in the morning,
while deciding if I should stare at you
or my empty coffee mug, or the ashtray
sitting on the railing of my backyard deck,
where so many times before,
I've guarded every part of my body
I wanted your hands to intrude on,
and held my breath when I otherwise wished
you'd seize it from my lungs with your mouth.
And I'd warn you that I might wake up mad most mornings,
if you knew I meant that I wake up every morning
absolutely ******* mad for you.

And it's true, I mean to be brave,
but I worry everyone knows,
that behind these bold monologues,
I am really just a sheep in wolf's clothing;
but sometimes it helps,
to pretend the skin fits.

In learning we don't have to always share a bed with fear,
it's those flashes of chance that bring out our poetry:
when we abruptly trip over the words we hastily collect
to sound off a feeling so explosive, that
even when it's mumbled with restraint,
it still sounds like fireworks.
and I wish I knew just how your stare looked
when you'd find the moment to strike your match,
and ignite whatever you've readied yourself to say,
but smothered the flame out of worry that you never could.
Just so you could know that you don't have to sleep tonight
with the fear that I'd never want to hear your poetry—
I love the sound of fireworks
when they're coming from your mouth.