E P H E M E R a L
You will refuse to admit
that the way he looks at you reminds you of a wedding dress:
something you cannot see yourself learning how to wear,
laced around your chest like a straight jacket;
he will have held you like that—
many times through the phone
you would have given him permission—all the time.
It was nice for a moment.
You will eat half of everything
promising him he can have the rest
no matter how far he is, all you want to do is share with him,
leaving an invisible body’s indentation beside yours.
You will sleep with your phone next to your ear,
as if his voice can crawl into you like a memory wrapped in bed sheets and telephone
wires.
On days you remember you think about him more than usual,
you will call him by his full name, reminding yourself he is an individual
leaving yourself out of the equation as if
your relationship is a math problem:
there is always a solution, but
this is ephemeral, erased text messages and
telling yourself your both staring at the same moon—we are that close, baby,
something time can only figure out on its own.
You will have difficulties explaining to your friends that
your closest kiss landed in Minnesota with a one way ticket and
roundtrips are for the ones who know how love back
“we prefer coffee and tea, please.”
You will have nightmares about vacations
constantly reminding you that happiness comes in pieces,
then you will smell his kiss through a computer screen
and remember why you have fallen into a moment’s time.
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