| Your kiss reminds me of being born, because I don't remember it at all. It must've happened, because here I am; and there you are with a post-prom-date-mistake frown on your face, but the memory is too strong to keep. I feel like an orphan child opening the family photo album to find only mirrors, crack'd. I know that if we did kiss our tongues would've bled from trying to taste those broken memories; our hands would've crash'd in the terrible creation of caring; and any attempt to walk away would've left my feet scarr'd. Still, I see shadows on the sidewalk where I've been, and though your eyes make me think of fireflies, every word from my mouth flashes between us like a bug-zapper working overtime. You look at me as if you understand I'm just a man, and we both know men are required to take a course in Bastardology 101. I tried to fail mine by not showing up for the Final because I didn't realize absence earns an automatic A. I look at you, attempting to decipher the cracks in those eyes I tried gluing back together, deciding what shade of black I should paint them when I find a new apartment, but you interrupt me by saying, "I love you." So I paint my own eyes the color of a morning-after mirror, leaving you with the only part of yourself I've ever seen: your reflection. Part of me wants to say something about how I could love you so passionately Valentino would wake up, shake the death from his eyes and say "Holy shit, now that's love!," or how I'd hold you so deep inside you'd have to learn to speak sonar just to say good morning, or how I'd fill the emptiness in the hollow of your throat- that space created by your tears digging their own well- with the slow torture of a pilot-light kiss on a winter's day; and I would, I really would, but the only thing I can't give you is a lie. I save those for myself. ©2002 Steve Ramirez |