Bubble wrap

I could not taste you close, when you first fed
you were brown and beige colored memory
then nearly four years later, we met again
between Fort Greene stares
my rolled up hair
and my fingers numb
I was cold and waiting for you

you pulled my stomach warm for you
and we spread over empty cracks in sidewalk spots
climbing near each other with bated breath
the crowd around was blanket bubble
til the one with red eyes dropped and spit obscenities

I wanted to say I knew before (I always knew)
but we were holding more than distance missed
and that bag of molten memories
you were such a lovely frozen thing
it was almost like we never fed
or you were warm and heavy sex
and I was cold and dotted kiss

I read you down and out that night
and now we’re liquid street sign things
up outside of my own permission
I knew about the transition
on the highest height
before we met

I knew you like Brooklyn before the blankets dropped
I knew I would get stuck in you
before the house was built
or the backyard knew
but you were strong in what you thought you should do
and I couldn’t say “if it’s not too late, I want you too.”
I would rather remember the shape that ice cubes make
I would rather pine for you.

I’ll be posting a love or love-themed poem every Friday in February. This is new/unedited.

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