the mirror is old
and it wasn’t made
with this humid city in mind,
or its corrosive sea air,
or the sauna my bathroom becomes.

i have to groom between
the patches of lifted foil
and the rust spots.

at a distance,
in the full-length view,
i seem to be missing
as much as the mirror.

i can’t find what it is
that keeps you,
what you tell me you see,
what it is that you touch
as i lay beside you.

sometimes there is a night where the hour grows too late to be walking home and taxis no longer exist and the sofa is too small, the floor too hard, and the weather too cold for the thin spare blanket.

sometimes when the last light is extinguished and the contents of the dark bedroom have distinguished themselves from the shadows, exhaustion reduces the whisper to slow breathing.

sometimes there is no move made, sometimes all there is is the warm pressure of another body and your bare legs crossed with theirs.

standing on the dry weeds
in the shallow front yard
and telling me of your plans
to move to another city
while i watch the skyline
of this city over your shoulders
half lit and being washed
sideways by the sun.

i say you shouldn’t go
and you don’t acknowledge
my words but you smile
because we both know
i am not the one to be saying that
and if i want to be the one
to be saying that then
i have to weigh me versus them
and i am so light already,
giddy, confused not in desire
but with what follows.

how many secret nights can i carry
when one may be too many
but none is not enough

if the wrong is in our thoughts
instead of in our actions then
there is a calendar of indiscretion
i have already filled

you leave, walking
in the middle of the street,
i am shaking my head
and i keep shaking
my head as i go into the house
because i need every no
to stop me from following.