We carry love the way the first amphibians
learned to carry the sea.
We are walking oceans.
When you come into my room
I pretend I am sleeping. Somehow
I'm still attached. Somewhere
inside of me there are lights
like phosphorescent fish
gliding across the ocean floor.
I'm out of advice, but you tell me
when he gets like that, everyone around
turns into wax paper. You can't imagine being
without him.
Still the radiator murmurs,
islands swallowed by the tide.
It's amazing that opening a door
a thousand times can build muscle,
even if it's the same door.
When we talk, sometimes we both
have herring bones stuck in our throats.
It's amazing that a door bell can sound
like an insect or that after all of this
when I see your face framed
by my hallway, breathing noticeably
from the four flights of stairs,
my mouth still says, hello.