He’s talking to the door he slammed,
so you must understand he doesn’t
want a complete shut-off—
not the kind of permanence of death,
the limitless infinity of shimmering sea waters
that become rivers
and then flow into seas again,
not the kind of keep out
where even scents do not diffuse.
That is why they are hints—giveaways,
popping up like saving graces
in the middle of a video game.
Because though my back is turned,
I want you to see I’m waiting—
waiting to feel your hand,
warm and strong,
clasping on my dropping shoulders,
transmitting strength like an army current,
rescuing my soul
from its shut-in pain.
And when our eyes lock while we dance,
I long for you to read past the make-up
to the parts longing to be reached.
I am not saying I’m unhappy.
Out here in this meadow—
where it’s just the two of us,
where I bare myself and laugh my loudest,
where I let you take all these pictures of me—
I could never be unhappy in this space.
This picture of us is my giveaway,
and I hope that every time you look at it,
you remember why I insisted
we take it in black and white.
