They weren’t the greatest Christmas
lights in Dallas. You asked for the Galleria
or the lightshow outside the firehouse. Those arches
were hacky. Blended spicy blues with hues of soothing
purples (all wrong

                                  for the season). They mixed, hun, in a way

I wasn’t expecting, you know?

So many times have I asked for solid
answers. What are we, love? A slurry? Plasma past the punctuation
of fucking or love making you’d see on Sex and the City or implied
(crudely) on Suits? Maybe we’re what we’ve ordered.
Your sassy whiskey sours and my melodrama mai tai. The silver
shape of the shaker tin curves like our mistakes into the outside of
a silken cell.
In the slurry, I cannot grab your hand, it doesn’t exist. I cannot kiss your shoulder,
it hasn’t formed. We have always stayed in this love that thrives between definition
and beyond the cocoon. You cannot love me like that, anyway.

                                You look so bothered by the moment when I asked to take
your picture. That was our fashionable winter. Long, sexy overcoats with
Doc Martins. Just past the huts in the Grandscape that were all closed
for the night. I have always wanted to hold your hand in moments like these.