Tell me then,
what you might have said
a hundred thousand times before,
when I looked over,
and I knew your tongue
was heavy
with the weight of words
I kept wishing
would
fall
free.
Tell me then,
what you might have done
at least once,
at least that once,
that one night
I asked for it,
that one night
you put your hand
between us,
not because
you didn’t want it,
not because
of that,
but because
I had not asked
with the right words.
Tell me then,
what you might have wished for, yourself,
all the times we laid on the roof to watch the stars,
the cigarettes
and gloves
and whisky
the only thing between us.
Tell me then,
how I am the only thing real,
when nothing about me is,
and all I am
is an ink-stained heart
that bears your careless fingerprints.