Last night I tried to read your body in Morse code,

but the dashes and dots didn’t form any kind of coherent

message. See, I have been inside your room so often

that even watching you undress is something as familiar

as my own skin. Did you know that children who have been

separated from their parents are still able

to recognize their mother’s voice up to ten years later?

That’s the level of familiarity that connects me to you.

How often your grey t-shirts smell like you,

like bee stings, frappucinos, morning milk.

When I play that childhood game of tearing petals

off daisies, I take pride in being able to say

She loves me, she loves me, she loves me

for every petal instead of only every other.

I was saved that night I broke down on the bus,

panic attack, they called it later, and you held me

in your arms all the way home, rain lulling us

to sleep, like in the movie Blue Valentine.

When I kiss you, my mouth turns to ashes.

I’m always being reborn beneath your tongue,

a phoenix rising from the earth to burn again.

Except this time, I burn so brightly

that even twenty gallons of gasoline lit with a match

couldn’t outshine my love.