Some days I stand in the shower
with my forehead against the tiles
and don't move for hours,
like a horse sleeping in its stall.
Yesterday my dad heard me crying;
he sat against the bathroom door
and cried with me, for his own broken heart.
Loving the unattainable; it must be a glitch
stitched into the genes.
The air is full of rain, or the rain is full of air.
It doesn't seem to be falling, only suspended,
like sun-swelled dust motes plateauing across windows.
Ever since that phone call the whole world
has become one, long baited breath.
Sunlight dribbles down the learning curve
of my back as I arch over you, bridging the gap
of years, experience, and tears.
I am a beautiful mess, gorging myself
on a beautiful abundance of you.
We have stopped believing in God.
What we have on this hot summer night
transcends the laws of religion;
we are creating our own afterlife.
If, in the end, there is nothing, what does it matter?
We have had an afternoon of paradise.
We should not expect any more than this.
A wedding and a funeral, you said.
In the morning stirring limbs will brush
confetti from the bed sheets and we will rise
to put on black shirts and gloves and hats.