Before we were rose colored ashes
we were midnights in the middle of the green.
Two bodies sweaty, heavy
hearted, rounding the galaxy
together. Head on shoulder face on skin lips
not kissing though touching,
breathing between us shelter.
If I knew, would I do it again?
Yes. I’d spend more money
on dinner. Chew slower. Drink more
water. Keep busier carrying
our little intimacies of living,
rebuilding and chiseling away
at ordinary decisions.
I’d work harder to lose you is what I’m saying.
Somehow every sundown I
saw our break brilliant like dawn
but got mixed up—thought nothing of gold’s
only hour steadily sinking. What was I thinking?
Neither gold nor midnight’s gleam
on the grass have enough electric
verve or whatever it takes to last.
And I thought we were special! Could you laugh?
Saturn was rising; our bodies sinking
from the sloggy slush. Before us
constellations spread like ashes.
If letting go is the lesson,
I haven’t learned much.
