“A most delightsome humour, to be alone” - Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
I’ll write you back, he promised, the last time I saw him,
But I can’t go on that date. The sliding glass door against my hip
Sharp and cold; the pandemic looming, knocking and knocking.
I’ll look forward to it, his voice catching in my ears the whole train ride,
as if sound, or touch, could cross miles and boundary lines. Yes, how
regret calls out in the morning, treading water, bright and alive.
I’ll take us to dinner, he said. A sideways turn, his quiet smile, gulled.
I’ll write you, I told him, stepping into the loose dress of mystery.
It was almost time for cherry blossoms, in dreamy pink, to blink awake.
I’ll drive you back north tomorrow, he offered, stitching the space between us
On our late walk home. My knee was bleeding from the stadium’s fence, wet.
Unburdened in intoxication, I took his hand & his offer, yes.
I’ll kiss you, if that’s alright? Yes, I said, yes, my hands glowing
Like splayed stars in the cold, shaking with newness, blurring
Against the dark football field. His crooked fingers spreading in my hair.
I’ll write you back, he promised, the last time I saw him,
But I can’t go on that date. The sliding glass door against my hip
Sharp and cold; the pandemic looming, knocking and knocking.
I’ll look forward to it, his voice catching in my ears the whole train ride,
as if sound, or touch, could cross miles and boundary lines. Yes, how
regret calls out in the morning, treading water, bright and alive.
I’ll take us to dinner, he said. A sideways turn, his quiet smile, gulled.
I’ll write you, I told him, stepping into the loose dress of mystery.
It was almost time for cherry blossoms, in dreamy pink, to blink awake.
I’ll drive you back north tomorrow, he offered, stitching the space between us
On our late walk home. My knee was bleeding from the stadium’s fence, wet.
Unburdened in intoxication, I took his hand & his offer, yes.
I’ll kiss you, if that’s alright? Yes, I said, yes, my hands glowing
Like splayed stars in the cold, shaking with newness, blurring
Against the dark football field. His crooked fingers spreading in my hair.