He let her down before.
The late nights weren’t
Always the gaps
She imagined them to be.
He must have fallen asleep behind the wheel.
But the stories kept on spinning.
He’d come home, feeling the night
Like he had always felt the night—
Questioning the blindness in sunlight.
There was a coldness that left emptiness,
There was rage that fueled absence.
The recognition of these
Left them sleeping on opposite ends
Of their full, spring mattress
Looking up at the ceiling, counting the fan’s whips
Because they felt they couldn’t count on each other.
It’s been one too many midnight later.
They were writing ghost stories of
their affection.
He let her down before,
And he let himself down too.
He must have had some emergency come up.
Cream and sugar please.
She sat in their rented apartment,
Rat traps in every corner,
Reading books by Phillip Roth and Don DeLillo
As she occasionally glanced at the glass clock
That hung above the kitchen and breathed deep.
They were new to this,
Bonded by the state, family ties.
Clouded black explosions airborne in the sky.
She’d let him down too.
The howling of ex-lovers
Was persistent.
Never call me again.
You’ve already torn my heart to shreds.
What’s said has already been said.
I love you. I love you.
I’ll always love you, but this can’t go on.
She thought they were two against the world,
Fighting off all doubt and word of mouth.
If we never learn to trust each other,
Well…
There were times he lifted her,
Strapped her to the carousel of his imagination
And took her for spins to forever remember.
Going up and down, up and down.
He didn’t run circles around her,
He walked her in straight lines,
Guiding her through the fire.
She moved like water across glass,
Stepped in every street light
To be transparent and vulnerable,
Plus, he loved the way she walked,
Loved watching her spread
Across sheet seas,
Loved watching her fall asleep.
They’d hold hands,
leave bars making out,
Touch, heaving, screaming.
Sometimes quite, sometimes separate.
They’d go elsewhere,
With someone else.
In the beginning, we always came home.
Home to the warmth of comfort,
The simplicities of familiarity,
White noise of gold fish swimming,
The mud-matted doormat,
The sanctuary of the bedroom.
He loved her.
But he had to live for himself too.
Those nights he was gone he was
Dreaming of Poe on ocean cliffs
Watching raven
Hearts
Pound beneath floorboards.
Dreaming up a man lost in a crowd
walking in circles.
He fell asleep behind the wheel
Parked with the keys in the ignition,
The ocean fog swallowing his mind’s composition.
He’d wake at
Dawn’s first sighting
drive to a coffee shop,
smoke cigarettes habitually,
Consider different excuses.
There is always the passing of a job,
The death of someone dear.
He’d drive home after picking her up
Breakfast in bed, flowers,
Anything charming that came
To mind.
One morning he kissed her on her head and said,
I know better men have loved you, sweet woman,
But no man will love you better than me.
