Yesterday you kissed me like you knew your number was up,
like you were about to be drafted.
You kissed me like my kids were asleep upstairs, and all you wanted
was to unravel me, but we knew better.
Yesterday, you kissed me like it was the summer of ’25, and
wow, better late than never, huh?
You kissed me with the knowing that the expired infrastructure
upon which we stood in my kitchen, in my house, in this Midwest shithole, was slipping forward
into obscurity; silt through the fingers of a stream-plunged open palm.
And so were we.
You kissed me like you’d never expected any of this.
You kissed me like my beloved collection of red herrings were glasses, pink.
You kissed me like you could hold my hand forever,
and it still wouldn’t be long enough.
Yesterday, I needed a lightning rod to discharge
all the electricity you left in my body.
I hope you come back today,
plant yourself atop of me for that sole purpose.