the second poem i wrote about you

the truth is, i don't want to write about you

perhaps it was easier when you were a secret
curled tightly against the line of god's palm
i could look at you and see nothing
but crazy hair and a belly
never suspecting the gold in your veins
the delight of measuring the curve of your skull
with my fingertips

i just assumed it was because of
1. 876 days of celibacy
2. ovulation
3. the moonlight
4. the scotch
5. the clouds and
6. the shy cat perched a few feet away just wanting to be petted
that i wanted you to kiss me

i didn't realize god was opening his hand

until
i saw you walking in the garden
sweet and lonely
and i thought
"oh fuck."