I’m mad at spring for smelling like you.
when the snow melted I ruined my shoes
walking to your house in the city
I bought your lotion, but the bottle’s almost empty
every girl I’ve touched likes the way it smells.
what’s to say about the predictability of your morning movements,
the shadows they cast in the same seven am light against
kitchen window frame and refrigerator,
you are stirring the french press contents
with a wooden spoon rhythmically with your left hand.
I hear the mouse in your pantry, but you don’t.
someday I will be the kind of woman to catch a mouse
and set it free; it’s eaten all of the granola and
pulled the cheese from the traps without getting caught.
good woman, a smart creature, you stir some more.
I’m only wearing your brother’s boxers you stole
from him long ago so they’re yours to lend now
and yesterday’s flannel shirt with one button closed
it ended up on your seventh stair last night
when we couldn’t wait for your bed.
after, we wake with both windows open, one of your breasts
covered by new white sheets greeting morning.
you still haven’t found the right curtains.
you buy me irises at the farmer’s market
they are my favorite color right before purple jumps to blue
I will have to throw them away when they die
maybe I will stop loving you then, or these comforts.
by evening I am home again, I conquer three staircases
the irises placed on my windowsill; the women who walk by will envy me.
the seven pm light across my empty bed smirks
its printed sheets still pulled tightly at the corners.
This is not a time to shoot the shit
That machretic droplet gone rogue
A set of affordances point out the obvious
Like you, I too do spin on the cusp
Like polyamory, or bitcoin, it will work once completely untethered.
Do we choose between more or less in sync
That's so funny, I was just writing you an email
Key is to hack away at regress
Living eternal on a Kurzweillian regime of supplements.
Thank you for making me thankful for mortality
We need not meet one last time
Don't you know already
Those are shaved peels
my creators used their teeth
to bring my form
through a gauzy
a wilderness sprawls
over the hearth
& here I am kept
drying, upside down,
a flower to be pressed
under no real weight.
i came to you wrapped
in no blood
but my own & smelling
of pumpkin. what am i
if not a spell / a psalm /
something that isn’t there?
there are fires written
in my cursive. kneel
to them. the electric
of me conducts full
shadows & i
am only true
in that glow