unlatched

                                                    

                                                            They asked me back then if

I was in love with you. And I said, no,

no this is not in love. In love means

outcropping selves meet and make a bridge

beneath which homeless raindrenched hearts

can build a fire. In love means hand

stretched out in darkness meeting

hand stretched out in darkness

so the sparks of fingertips can light

the only-us-never-again

in-all-the-world whorls of our skin.

In love means when I run home,

lights are on, door is unlatched,

and you don’t even turn around because

you know my footsteps, know the way

I latch my hands around your waist

rest my weary self against my forehead in between

your shoulderblades. If, in all of my twenties

in love ever tried to be,

it was at the edge of me 

that faced the edge of you. 

But, no. No, I never was in love,

because

rain sweeps under half-bridges,

and the door would never open,

and my fingertips in darkness

just lay cold. 

Image by David Mark from Pixabay