78.

I am just trying to read old poems about old lovers but
all I can do is stay here with(out) you and make
lists. I don't know what I am trying to remember
but writing it down helps me not to forget.
The music distracts me.
I've forgotten what those old lovers' faces
looked like and all I can recall now is the softish yellow
glow of the Christmas lights on your floor, and
the Christmas music that played by accident. And
how your face cracks a smile when you don't mean for it to,
and how your eyes look more gray than blue
at four-o-clock in the morning. And how you whisper please
sometimes when I am taking too long. Things like that.
Also, I remember the wisp of melody that curves
down your cheek with the stray tears you lose track of, and
your face when you listen to the darkest things I say.
More like your hands when you listen to the darkest
things I say, because you always place them over my fingers or
my heart, as if to remind me that you're still there.
It helps. We both know this is moving far too fast too
fast, but it feels so clean and it has been kind to us so far, and
I am not inclined to give it up so easily. So maybe I will take
you up on your offers. Maybe we will get rings, or tattoos,
and maybe everyone we know will try to understand but maybe
they will not, and maybe we will forget to care.

There is just something sitting in your skin that helps
me breathe a bit easier. I think I do the same for you.
It is something I would thank the gods for
if I thought they listened.

(But perhaps you are proof
 that they do.)