the day you walked in

The day you walked in
they were playing some old song
like the House of the Rising Sun
that fit the mood of your stride
and your eyes
that trailed the cracks in the ground,
and shoulders that seemed to want to follow
the direction of your gaze,
pulled downwards
as though they would sink beneath floorboards
if they could.

Andy was trying to convince me
that there was life in outer space
and that Steven Spielberg
was part of a conspiracy to brainwash us
into thinking otherwise
and I was laughing
and he was telling me how he would have the last laugh,
complete with pointing fingers,
and shaking bellies.

And I looked away from Andy
to you,
a cigarette held between fingers
that looked too clean for that face, those eyes
(how did you come to look so old so soon?)
and the smoke curled in your face
and you cringed, in a way that made me
want to breathe in that smoke
away from you.

The day you walked in
was like any other day -
its significance fading from the mind
other than to remind me that
I first saw you,
lanky and thin, clothes hanging off a frame
that barely held your heart together,
not knowing that inside that heart
lay the capacity to beat, intense
against my own
and as we lay on the couch in Andy's house,
your hands resting, at first idly on my hips
you pressed yourself into me
in a quiet meeting of the minds
persuading us to become
electricity, kinetic -
and we fused.

After, your skin felt warm
softer than it should have,
your hands resting, idly
here and there
and we both knew
it was love.

The day you walked in
I knew, and yet did not,
that I would stand over this grave
in a matinee showing of what loss feels like
and swallow the injustice of a world
that let you,
young, beautiful, perfect
walk away
before you were ready.