Tomorrow, well, today, I will write of a love
that is easy, one that is like sinking into the
fresh sheets of your bed after a long day, down
surrounding you, in an embrace so kind your
brain does not believe it is real, because, here,
is rest without a knife to your back; but today,
I will instead open the fridge that has gone bad,
and pull from its guts, the expired carton at the
back, and set on the glass table, my cracked pensieve,
in which I will receive testament of the communion
that was that day; here, is my steady hand, pouring
you out into the gaping hollow of my throat; now,
here, is my bitter mouth, vomiting the sourness of you
into the aging cavity of the pensieve; look, there
is the promise of us floating, placid across the surface,
my head is uplifted to look upon the surface of your face
in the sunlight, the shadows of the trees do not
touch us, this waiting does not touch us, the slamming
breathlessness of death is already forgotten, here only,
is the fragrance of you, the lost confusion of our friends
who do not understand the hesitancy that stays us,
but understand enough, the way we look at each other,
to call it love; I dip my head into the pensieve,
and I do not drown, instead, I breathe easy, like
the heat dappled upon our backs, my fingers
reaching out to smoothen the fierceness of your
singular brow: I have always wanted to touch you,
now, I do; here, is my hand in your hair, here, is us
sharing the old path of three, here is my hand on
your arm, fingers rested on the pale scars beneath
your wrist, you do not shy away from this, you
welcome this, you welcome my knowing.
Here you are, kissing me on the cheek.
There you are walking away, smiling.
Here, I am blushing.
This carton is empty now.
The pensieve is drying.
This memory is not bitter.
It is just empty.
K.N.O.W. April 1-4, 2019. NaPoWriMo Day 3.