I read somewhere once that when a woman
writes you a poem, she spends time
with the gods on your behalf.
I didn’t really get it until we were sitting
in the restaurant
with ice cream and coffee
and you said, “Sit down and be honest.”
You listen with your face
while I talk with my hands
and it’s like your mouth is silently translating.
You may not catch every word,
but you still hold my gaze
while your cardboard cup
lets off steam.
Our trio needed late night
fast food on this day of all days:
one newly single,
one getting used to it and me, feeling like
I’m always moving somewhere
in between.
I guess it’s why I like to sit in the middle.
You do not understand why I need you
or how much—or I do not think
you do until you play a song
that sends the gods bursting through the speakers.
I feel them inside us and know
they’ll keep me up when I get
back to my apartment for the night.
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