In April 1992 I feel your smile lip-sync through mine.
Your laugh never shows top teeth,
but each time I grin it’s your grin, filtered through the template
that your love has added, working through my lips
and bouncing off the mirror.

In August I stand naked behind you,
your body’s silhouette encased, outlined.
My arms parenthesize your presence
(even our skins blend—olive on olive).

In October your mouth tastes as perfectly familial
as my tongue against its soft neighbor walls.
My skin remembers your touch
but always wants to be reminded.

In November I watch your face instead of the movie,
the smoothness of skin, Nebraska hair,
feel myself deciding you’re the one I want
to be there when I die.

In December you confide in me
that I am not the one for you.
.   .   .

Five months later I admit that I don't know
how to peel away what you left behind,
why your love didn’t take,
and more specifcally, why I can’t say,
with conviction, fuck you.