Your body and a handful of steam. A hangover in the shape of a swan. A reason to say no. You on your back with a bellyful of stars while I’m staggering around unable to figure out what year it is. We’ve been here before. We’ve said these same words and made the same promises, so why does it always go wrong? When you close your eyes in a lonely bed, who is it that you think of, and why is it that you’re apart? Questions so many questions. So many scenarios as I contemplate your body behind closed eyes. The image of your breasts is unshakeable. And then your hips and your thighs and your belly where I make patterns with my hands trying to summon God. When I place my lips on your nipple and struggle to tell if you’re mother or lover, the sky darkens and the light bulb sways. When you resist my love, I want to strangle the life out of you, but then I breathe you in and see you for what you are and what you are is a piece of my heart. So many times I wanted to cut you out of me, but if I did, I’d only end up hurting myself and they’d be nothing left but scars. And not those pretty ones the poets write about, either. These would be those you keep covered up through shame. Those that never see the cold light of day. And that day, it stutters along. It skips back and forth as you morph between being a woman and a whore. In one eye you’re the light, and in the other, you’re not there at all. In one breath an angel, the next just some vague outline that glides along the sidewalk two steps ahead of me as I run through the rain open-mouthed and ever so slightly delirious.