When You Think You’re Remembering

You make me wish I knew more songs.
As if knowing them
equals singing and becoming
this beautiful I can’t see how you see
some days
not many.
I had the rest of this poem in my head
and then I started typing
It left me like every word
I try to use to tell you
I tentatively hold out confessions
and jerk them back close to me
that it’d be weird (which you always
and I like that, too) make me question
And you say no, it’s okay,
I get to learn new things about me
one day maybe
(Yes? No? Maybe? and I like that, too)
I’ll point it out.
We keep coming back to the stars,
astronaut, calling them
to dangle within millimeters
of our patient outstretched fingers
when they remind us that
they’re too busy
to deal with our pesky Gravity
(remember? I know;
we memorized the date and I like that,
too) we instead turn to each other
the same molecules, air exploding
through reactions
that would have made me much more
interested in cells years ago if only.
I walked outside to sit
where you were, turn to
where I was,
look to catch a phantom
of what you uncovered

I remember! Part of what fleeting
syllables were snatched earlier:
That your eyes are too shallow (hiding)
for me to see my reflection,
they show the sandy carpeting
that waits
beneath the water
you say you are good at getting
people to believe,
(“No, said the liar,” and I admit
that I don’t like that)
grain by grain you uncover
the rock shards that you hand me,
wisps of what you might be,
barely condensing
long enough to weigh upon my hands.
I can’t see into your eyes
I know their color, which might
surprise you since I stared
at the concrete
(It’s easier, looking straight ahead.
You were right.)

that evening, which later made me think
of stars
at the time I only saw the porch light,
green couch fabric as I am moving
my arm, looking,
trying to see the girl
with her head angled to her knees,
mouth moving with words
because there’s nothing she can think.
(That time you said that it’s rare
for you to not have anything to say;
I said I knew- I like that, too.)
My hands are not cold enough
to become more than
individual sums again
so instead I write a poem
that might confuse even you,
metaphor crafter;
it might be better
because of the forgetting.

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