a poem about two-second love affairs with strangers, especially the strangers you know.

If we’re going to be honest about it,
like exposed cuticle, natural hair color
honest about it,
like bruised elbows, skinned knees
real about it,
wide eyes, gap tooth
wild about it,
like hold your own hand on the bed sheets
sorry ’bout it,
if we’re going to be
frank I might as well tell you
I’ve been in love with you since
uncombed hair, wet sand toes,
mud streaked cheeks, blue highlighter stains,
coffee breath, ragged breath,
tock after tick tick waiting for it,
the cold of a wide open refrigerator
where instead of closing the door you
put on your winter coat.
I’ve been in love with you since the
first day, last day,
if we’ve had it and I just haven’t
realized it yet so
if we’re going to be
honest about it,
I’ll forgive you for all the things you
could’ve said
before you hung up the
phone.
I’ll forgive you for putting on your own coat
before helping me with mine.
If we’re going to be totally
completely
unhingededly
honest about it,
I’d really, really rather
we weren’t.

~

I miss New York. I miss falling in and out of love between subway stops. The gentle compassion/co-misery of strangers who understand it, whatever it is, even if you never have the words to explain it. Just one shared look and the whole mess of the day is worth it, because at least there was someone on a train who could see past the circles under your eyes and the white-knuckle grip on your purse.

Does that make sense? Who knows. I’m not very good at being honest about it.

Have a good day. Love you.

xx,
Meg