May
Veiled were the stars, and you swore it was defiance.
Still incomparable, this Victorian sky. I prompted
my imagination to seek more than interpolating public domain
across and through the window pane. Incorporating sugar
with malice, and happy birthday with red wine. No,
not because it sounds good, or it looks cool. You know why.
Whenever you leave me you leave a pit. But also fear: that you will crash, that I’ll implode alone, that we could have never met and so loved someone else completely. You turned thirty with a four-course meal we overpaid and didn’t enjoy. Guess that’s life. Smothering you between your ears and cradling you until you’re safe, sound, and asleep. What a childish love we have. What a thing to witness us withering like spinach in a pan.
