The calendar mocks me
smirking on my desk
as my blind finger makes only a small journey
to the night I saw you last.

to the night your arms
held my raw, shaking tears
for the first time,
And the last.
to the night the street lamp
danced in the salty wetness of your eyes
The night your head shoved the cold air side to side
Shaking No
don’t go yet,
I love you.

to the night I drove
from Birch street
from 8 months
from my poems
and your songs
to the night I drove from us.

but even though you’re so close on the calendar
I forget your face now.
Your eyes are tucked in old pictures
and our poems read more like blurry syllables
And drunk imagery

In first grade we learned that liquid
takes the shape of it’s container.
You say time is liquid
but I say the calendar days are containers

I guess I’m not like those people
who see days as just lines on paper
where that fluid
spreads freely
and you wake up with last Tuesday’s water on your cheeks

no,
to me
our river is locked in the box of last Tuesday
and anyway
I have trouble seeing underwater

but somehow,
when I kissed him
I could feel the 8 months trickle back to my mouth
and I wanted so bad to taste
the warm language of your love
but his foreign tongue simply could not translate.

I wanted to
Crash the calendar glass
And swim in our music of time
With your lips pouring on mine
but in first grade we learned that liquid
takes the shape of it’s container.

and You say time is liquid

but unfortunately
the calendar days are containers