It is cold, here, and wanting.
The air bites, and the sky warns
To stay away, stay inside; there
Is no love here, not tonight—
But my heart remembers itself, and it knows,
Knows that the poles say I was here
In years-old Tipp-ex, that the roof is
Marked with the initials of people
I haven't seen in lifetimes, of people
I barely know but miss, in spite of myself. I think
Mine are there, with them, but I can't be sure.
What is it about this place
That makes the air thrum, and the moon
Turn on its stately head?
Nothing special happened here,
Not when it mattered. You were
Not a dream here, not when I still cared.
Back then you were not so unreal,
And the air did not beat
With a hummingbird's heart.
I watched you sell candy floss to children,
And after your shift was over you joined me,
And we sat and wrote our names on
The plastic, reminding it that we were there.
It did not feel very important, not at the time.
We were only in love: with youth,
That thin-skinned thing that longs to be idyllic,
And the red that was an undercurrent;
With the thought of being known
For skeleton, for skin, for tired eyes
And our names being enough.
But my name never was. Your mouth
Cracked, and bitten red
Threatens disaster
And I am trying to understand, I am,
But this all comes to something
My fingers cannot follow—
The end of the world, surely, or an ending
Of smaller proportions, of
Smaller persons.
I want to believe that you might
Remember me, but I can't.
I want to believe that no one
Will say these words in this order again, but
I can't. I can't.
