The kitchen in his place was sort of a bust.
The windows didn’t open all the way
and the low set ceiling meant that
stagnant air set off fire alarms every time we
cooked.
But still, when he spun me round,
my toes sliding across cracked linoleum,
I didn’t notice.
Because when he touched me I didn’t
notice anything else at all.
You slipped from my fingers
as though greased with the pain
of every memory I put to rest.
Now I love you like I love
all things that are not meant for me:
quietly,
with enough silent passion to flood lakes.