This is what I see tonight: you
splayed out on a mattress, all the clocks set
to winter. Because we both know our mutual

fallibility, we have kept the heat off,
wrapped each other in blankets.
Every time I open my lips, an apology

falls out, poorly articulated and masked
as a question. I didn’t mean to
grow old; all I wanted to do was

don a stylish hat, dance
as tulips blossomed. But I
am the kind of woman

with a black belt in destructive behavior,
who was once an embryo pulled
from a gin bottle. Who hasn’t called her mother

in four years. When I rest
next to you, sometimes I think
Jesus Fucking Christ —

and remember there are stars
we haven’t heard from yet.
My thoughts about you are frighteningly

precise: monsters
in gorgeous dresses; a rendering
unto Caesar. You are

a more original sin. See:
I was a long, dark fairy tale, too. And you
are what I will be buried in.