Through half-closed blinds, the sun
casts tiger-stripe shadows. I watch myself
in the mirror, offering an apology
for how I push you
away. The blinds shiver, make ripples like water
in lines across my skin.
Your fingers trace maps on my skin.
Your eyes glimmer in the sun,
two lakes of glacial water.
I tell you I need time for myself
and it offends you.
The lakes freeze, demand apology.
Cool rain pours across faces and apologizes
for blurring mascara onto skin.
I stiffen on the sidewalk, thinking I see you.
I’m mistaken, and clouds part for the sun.
It shines consolingly, though I am not myself.
I step in a puddle. My jeans drink the water.
My house is not weather-proofed; water
seeps in under foundation. The landlord mutters apology,
spends all day here resealing. My self-
deprecation gets the best of me and I sneak around, skin
tingling, hoping he thinks I’m not home. Spot the sun
glowing hot and painful in the sky. Think of you.
That day I couldn’t get away from you.
People on their balconies, sipping bottled water,
watched our angry faces contort in the sun.
You made useless apologies,
you weren’t comfortable in your skin:
“Don’t leave me by myself.”
I have never had to be by myself,
so maybe I didn’t understand you.
By now you’ve washed your skin
of me, the scalding shower water
is a sputtering apology.
Droplets, tears evaporate in the sunlight.
I don’t need to explain myself. Water
long since renewed you; you don’t beg for apology.
Our skin won’t touch again beneath this sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment