We need a number
to plot our love, to propose
a first THC, whiskey
fake lust romp as love or
it would be to us, also, the night a boy walked
through a glass door
like magic, with sound.
When we eat and only talk
to the waiter I roll through recorded dates, the first
date at a hockey rink, sobriety aching, the first
floor fuck in a bathroom in the Virgin Islands –
my eyes closed, oh, in a dream about softer times.
Like an thunderstorm,
I love you heavy and uncertain.
Punctuating with circled dates
I re-read letters you wrote me,
in bed with someone else.