I remember when we met —
wait, no I don’t, but I remember after —
weaving back and forth like Ariadne’s needle,
swift of stumbling foot and pulled chest-first
down into the dank recesses of an
unwashed, reeking train station.
My friend had puked his guts out
just before I’d left;
he’d danced with you two hours prior, too.
I felt so sad for him.
He didn’t know what it felt like
to have love grow like mold in your heart.
A soft velvet that covers
and breathes and lives and smothers.
I don’t remember the first thing
about when we met.
But I remember knowing that —
Even though I hadn’t yet learned your
secret fears or aspirations, not then,
maybe not even now, maybe I’m
mistaking intimacy for honesty —
Anyways, these words are
a reverberating bullet in my skull,
and they’ve been bouncing ever since
your soft voice first set my tympanum afire.
A thought I had thought I’d never think.
"I think things are going to turn out
just right this time.”