I wanted you to be
safe and comfortable.
I wanted to hold
your hand; I wanted
to close my eyes
and listen.
The symphony in the dark
sang of waves and beats,
an asymmetric form
breaking and rebreaking
inside the quiet glare
of a small, electric light.
No one but the experts know
what the pictures mean,
and we will ignore half of them anyway,
but I mean to get a tricuspid tattoo around my wrist,
a forever moment of
one,
two,
three seconds at most,
a thin line of strange regularity,
reminding me of a simple wonder
and a certain truth:
no one says it like you do.
