I.
Pink light
cascades in ribbons from the tank
to land surreptitiously
across our faces. Its glow
hides the creeping blush
rising in my cheeks
as I notice, in the glass,
your rippling reflection
staring at me.
So I try not to smile,
holding our gazes clandestine for
a minute longer, just to let
the jellyfish think that
we’re admiring them.

II.
From one eye,
a turtle studies the warm-blooded couple,
a girl, fingers cold
and a boy, palms sweating.
Their image bends and
warps; their muffled laughter
joins the glugging rhythm
of the pseudo-ocean.
Holding its breath, it settles into
a front-row seat
for its favorite exhibit.

III.
You point out a pair
of angelfish gliding blithely,
two lovers floating freely.
We were fish once,
you tell me.
Yet here we stand,
I reply,
with our feet stuck to the ground,
only able to dream of
breathing underwater -
what kind of progress is that?
And you just smile,
silently tuck your arm
around my waist,
pull me closer
and wordlessly answer all of my
questions.

and I was supine
on the couch, with thoughts
flattening my chest, usurping
oxygen from my open mouth.
I watched a muscle
twitch in my leg,
the image bent through the lens of
an unbroken tear
and wondered if my body
was even my own.
Of all the things I
must accept
that I cannot control,
my body will always
be the most difficult.

Melancholy coats cars like pollen,
smudging windows and mirrors,
making vision hazy
dripping from faucets like
incessant spacey teardrops.
It hangs just in front of your
eyes and
curtains their shining irises; it
sneaks through your lips in
whispered goodbyes.
When you leave, it
holds my cold hands
and plasters traces of you
to every square inch of my imagination.
At night, it counts
the ceiling tiles, then the floor
and listens in the morning
to my dreams from the night before.
Melancholy swells for miles between us, keeps
a seat empty next to me, and always
hopes for you.

Your gaze clings to me as if I were
the last line of your favorite novel or
the first star in the night sky.
Your voice has the cadence of prayer
as you unravel my past to make
a tapestry of my future.
It's all I can do to cry tears of honey,
and pour gratitude over
you like I could ever deserve
all the things you give me.

languidly glows in your cheeks,
just north of
the lip you split trying
to tell me you loved me without
saying you loved me.
Saturday morning
breaks burgundy behind
your head, silhouetting
every piece of heathered forgiveness
we earned without merit.
It rises and splatters
in my chest like laughter and it
shines from your eyes to
the edge of your jaw.
Saturday morning
solidifies sunrise in memory,
with its hallowed rays streaming
haloed from your long lashes. It’s
interlaced with the scent
of you,
suddenly flooding my shuddering lungs.
Saturday morning
swirls early in whispers like dew
steaming
toward balmy April ether.
It supersedes time as it
unwinds the hands on the clock,
flexing post-Friday and
stretching pre-Sunday.
Saturday morning is everything
delicate and divine
that is ever-coursing from
my soul to yours:
I love each Saturday morning
because I first loved you.

Come down from the heavens, honey;
Earth feels like hell when you're not here.