the calendar mocks me
smirking on my desk as my blind finger makes only a small journey
to the night I saw you last.
to the night your arms held my raw, shaking tears
when the street lamp danced in the salty wetness of your eyes
your head shoved the cold air side to side
No
don’t go yet,
I love you.
to the night I drove from Birch street
from 8 months
from my poems
and your songs
to the night I drove from us.
but even though you’re so close on the calendar
I forget your face now.
your eyes are tucked in old pictures
and our poems read more like blurry syllables and drunk imagery
in first grade we learned that liquid takes the shape of it’s container.
you say time is liquid
but I say the calendar days are containers
I guess I’m not like those people who can see days without lines on paper
where fluid spreads freely
and you wake up with last Tuesday’s water on your cheeks
no,
to me, our river is locked in the box of last Tuesday
locked in the box of Birch street
and anyway,
I have trouble seeing underwater
but somehow,
when I kissed him
I could feel the 8 months trickle back to my mouth
and I wanted so badly to crash the calendar glass and swim in our music of time
with your lips pouring on mine
and taste the warm language of your love again
but his foreign tongue could not translate.
I guess it’s because in first grade we learned that liquid takes the shape of it’s container.
and you say time is liquid
but
the calendar days are still containers
