We lay on that vintage rust velour,
you and I, remember? I kissed you
on the stoop at 5a.m. after you came
quickly to my desperate call from
deep downtown, my voice shaky:
“Can you pick me up?” Earlier that
evening I had made an excuse as
to why I hadn’t used your phone
number and now it was a scrap
of paper in my shaky hand, I said,
“I’m not dating men,” to which you
didn’t reply. But you told me a few
things about why people are the
way they are, and I couldn’t help
myself. I kissed you, and it was
sudden like the movies, awkward
like the past. And there we were
one night, watching some old
movie on that heavy couch. We
scraped it noisily into place to
more closely pay no attention.
You wrapped your arm around
me, and things changed for the
better. I remember your touch
was determined but gentle, and
I fell in love with you– not then
but later– maybe even before
I will admit to and maybe after
I will admit to until now, as you
sit close to me again on this couch,
and we are not touching. We are
laughing and I am holding a mug
of coffee between us so I make
no mistake, you are not mine any
longer. We talk about the last time
we had sex, and you ask something
to which I reply, “because it was
the first time you were sitting across
from me and you weren’t mine.” But
we are smiling. And it is not the last
time you will be sitting across from
me and not mine, but I let this go as
well as I know how because I love you.
And you still say it back. And this
contents me more now than it used
to, and I am catching a glimpse of
your silver truck as I shut the door,
and we are both still smiling. Keep
you here, I won’t. Let you go for
now, my friend, but you are mine
for keeps somehow, and she and
I have never really looked each
other in the face on this. But I
have to believe she’d agree.
