So many glasses we broke since last week,
with our fingers made slippery with grief.
The cheap ones cracked into cosmic disarray,
inflicting cuts too small to see
but big enough to feel and ponder upon
for nights and nights and nights.
We both apologize as we spill wine again, still we scurry,
whispering "it's no big deal" as we wave our hands,
as if to hide the tremor that inhabits each of us.
We are like infants,
newly born into familiar movements;
cup to lip, hand to knob,
we set our faces at the door and wonder,
mid-falter, how we did it before.
I say all the glasses can go fuck themselves.
I'm tired of the crowds, tired of the rantings
about the spastic sun that shines and shines and shines.
My love, everything between us is happening on the cusp of tragedy,
the tip of comedy, the pivot of event.
How are we different from all the other loves that went south,
that grew awry?
Can you help me in battling the coming winter
with our thin winding sheets and hard narrow bed?
Can you help me ferment our current season to fullness and stretch it further,
so i can slip into something light, like your skeleton,
while my weary bones are still working?