Your breath smells of pork rinds
and the vinegar from a jar
of pickled eggs. I haven’t touched water
in three days, so we’re even. You’re afraid
of the dark. I’m afraid of lots too: horses
wasps, serial killers, and the sight of my own blood.
We slide the bed under the window
and bask in the glow of the streetlight
making it so
we can see snow piling cars
and how winter is near
so we know to dig out
our blue knit mittens
and buy Christmas presents
for people we don’t want
to buy presents for.
With my tongue I taste toothpaste
lodged in the cracks of your teeth.
“Tastes like Crest.”
You blush. “I figured if I didn’t rinse
I would stay fresher, longer.”
And then I whisper like a secret
that I love you. I wasn’t sure if I did,
but it felt right
and the words
sounded nice
stumbling out from behind the holes
in my teeth.
Then we were swimming
through air
moving lazily through bubbles
our bodies mashed against the ceiling –
as close to God as I’ll ever be.
Little did I know
that same snow
we watched pile up on the cars
would pile up in us
and we wouldn’t know
to shovel it out
or speak of it
like the way people don’t speak
of their dead dog
or the step child
they don’t care for.
And then I will find you
in the bathtub
after work
sometime in early spring
and I’ll fold your blankets
into perfect squares
and place them in boxes
for your mother.
And she’ll keep them
in the basement
in a dark room
pressed and sealed
with duct tape
to hold onto
the last living part of you
for as long
as you’re willing to stay.
