fretting

i think you would like me
the way you liked me three years ago
confusingly, obtusely, stupidly
letting me into worlds that ultimately
were. not. mine.
is this how men feel when they come home
from the moon? the familiarity and comfort
is not exciting or scary, not billowing or bold
gravity exists and it keeps me humble
and independent
and inquisitive
and you would love me now
if you didn't already know that love
ruins that which one loves.
so let's orbit, never cross paths
and i will learn to strum the songs we used to listen to
while you learned about tensile cables
and i learned about robotic ants
and both of us learned
that two is not so bad.

i think you would like me
if you hadn't crashed that car, the
blue one with the frozen door; if you'd
never seen me howl at the moon
in lonely joy. if you hadn't noticed
our orbit widening, our moons
fighting, our star deciding
what sort of star it was.
all of that uncertainty, like the faith of science
was too much for you and certainly
too large for me to contain
all on my own.
you lost one religion, and then you lost another.
driving in your car, lights dim,
you disapproving of my late night
medicine run, of my need for
medicine in the first place
of my knowing
that you need them too
you crashed, and crashed, and crashed
we didn't notice until months later.

i think you would like me
if you had treated me better
not blamed me for my pain.
i think you would like me
if you could have seen the moon
that i was on, the lightness of living
when we held hands.
i think you would like me
if i wanted you to like me anymore
if i tried harder to keep on liking you
if i just let you be
if i just didn't talk
if i didn't cry
if i sat against your wall, writing word after word about robotic ants
listening to the music settle in and grow inside of me.

there are certain talismans i have kept from our space romp
and you can't have them back.

peanut butter

you were and are strolling through my phobic depths
each footstep, breath, leaf taken in
you've seen it and crushed it and shown it me in
full-frame, 35mm, HD, with so cinematic an eye
could you not have seen this coming?
you, pushed into me and me into you by some cosmic
force that ultimately you've given up on
or no longer find tragic or peaceful or lonely or serene
all of those arts of emulsion we almost mastered
you invoke yourself in my morning prayers,
rituals involving push-ups, peanut butter, rice protein
(chocolate flavored to mask the insecurity)
the simple act of unscrewing the jar can unscrew my ducts
and my breakfast will become salty
and i will consume far too much sodium
like your brother
who shakes before he tastes, who acts before he thinks.
returning to the task in my hand: breakfast, insurmountable.
bananas, broken by palm, coconut oil (an unsustainable balm),
in the protein, in the milk. my hand is stuck
on the oily lid of our teddie peanut butter,
your favorite and by extension mine,
refusing to open for me or desiring to prolong the struggle
how easy to blame a teddy bear instead of oily physics.
i sputter and bump and curse and cry
memories rubbing off on my shirt, permanent stains, spilling
over the counter, dirtying the floor, tightening my shoulders
grabbing at my jaw, and then
i move to the sink for a rubber glove. the smack of its
approval lines things up straight.
i pick up the jar, thinking i've made morton obsolete
and read:
"separation is natural."