the day can move on without me

i can't tell if, together we make something bright,

or warm,

maybe we have become objects that can only be

considered several hours after, later... it could be one of two things:

a fragile cream colored plate,

(his bare back a denial of tenderness, a spine that speaks well enough

for both of us as he efficiently slips his boxers back on;

he didn't even mean it in that way)

or it could be an ill-fitted sweater, unexpectedly soft

(while i was folding laundry he

put his arms around me, kissed my neck i think,

but mostly i remember admiring

my favorite shirt) and

i would like to believe, mainly, that we are a direction

of the slightly chilled light that enters winter

right before dusk. the spaces between these words are of a plummeting

quality, i know, but april arrives as

a soft-eyed month, reader,

and it's okay to consider minor wounds and words as

the weeping a body must do. and to be honest,

we could be among many objects that exist, and unravel,

but the texture of our conversations indicate something closer to

"calling it a night" and "it must be, right?"

earlier, i kissed the emotion of a perfect color

and cried with no specific purpose in mind. and i can't tell if,

i could be wrong, your skin is mild, warm

like the thick layer of sugar left

in my cup after all the coffee is gone.