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.