I was reading, perched in the doorframe
on the steps of our apartment
in Bellagio. You had jazz music on
in the kitchen,
dancing a little. There was the smell
of red wine, fresh basil.
And a fullness.
Above all, I remember
thinking love
would last, that nothing could bother
the impenetrability of yes, of this
or that,
of all those moments afterwards.

Months later, continents over, in the home
that we shared
we danced again, to Leon Bridges: a sad
kitchen shuffle after breakfast, after
night, after whiskey with a salt rim,
after you, after me, after the fourteenth
Never again. I never could
get enough of us.

Upstream, the light caught,
made snowflakes of the dust mites
from the corners, behind the fridge,
where you used to keep used
Zip-lock baggies, because you were
concerned about the use of plastic,
wanted to conserve
everything.

You want to live like a calm canoe,
in the middle of a flat lake, on a crystalline day,
Fields of mountain for sky.
I did not know then, like you knew already,
that the life
you had given to me, like an offering,
would never
be enough. How badly I wanted
to believe
it was.

I caused us to leave Venice a day early.
You were convinced I would have rather
gone out to explore. I was so worried
about money—counting
every dollar—our passports,
our things.

I had not learned
how to bend yet.