Heartbreak is a little priest
hiding in a lake.
A trail of fingers
floating in the water
between islands.
A house where a kid watched
hydrangeas bloom in the backyard
then set them on fire.
I am not the memory
of a shotgun
but there is a door in my heart.
A crevice resembling
the black of your pupils
and a child sitting in that darkness
asking to be taken home.
And the hope that it’s not too late
to put him to sleep.
For you and I to tuck ourselves
back into each other,
the nurses’ corners of our skin
coming loose
when we last pulled away.
Years ago, in a northern city
the sidewalk became ice
beneath our feet as we stood
on a street corner arguing all night.
Only two weeks together
and already falling apart.
For so long, we lived like two fish
trying to remember water.
I wanted to confess
everything to you even after
I had no breath to do so.