I buy milk as if it is the
thing I have ever done; come home and
lay the bag on the floor
at your feet.
The meaning is lost
on you, a man
who is a snap of clean linen;
no, you prefer strait-line
talk, full-throttle motion.
Not wavering semaphore.
I feel silly with my quiet twist of metaphor,
Darling, Buttercup, My Angry Little Arsonist,
saying your name is the breath between
the waves, your heart
the hungry mouth of the bay.
There is a curve between the me and the you
We waited too long, hoping the pause
would not last forever, but just in case,
we hold hands in the dark.
I had forgotten how to give you
the space between my lines,
but then yesterday I found fragments
of a poem I had ripped up and
thrown in the trash
folded up in your jacket pocket
the truth is
I never expected to love you
and those words
were written for another man.