Crush

Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.

History repeats itself. Somebody says this.

History throws its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop,

over the sock drawer with its socks, its hidden letters.

History is a little man in a brown suit

trying to define a room he is outside of.

I know history. There are many names in history

but none of them are ours.

We are all going forward. None of us are going back.

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close

to focus on.

You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one

safe place where you could love him. You have not found that place yet.

You have not made that place yet. You are here. You are here. You're

still right here.

of them have seen

you naked and heard you talking in your sleep.

Digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light.

Midnight June. Midnight July. They've been going at it for days now.

You are not

breathing. You're climbing out of the chlorinated pool again.

We have not been given all the words necessary.