is it too early to trust, my dear
(may i call you mine, dear?)
in you, your language and affection,
in the curve of your shoulder
steady under me, intimate
for, weary, my heart hurts with waiting
to lean in, bear down heavy and whole
and sure of your meeting me again

maybe it is too early to know, my dear
(if i may call you mine, dear)
of what we, you and i might become
but know when i leave,
your scent draped on my body,
i take with me the soft-sweetness
of your skin brushing mine,
of your lips coming in
hummingbird quick, a kiss

after we part, i breathe you in
every exhale now made farewell
farewell for now

i cry most when it happens. we don’t think about this.
i cry at the funeral. we don’t think about this either.
i cry at my apartment door when i arrive and do not greet you.
also, i cry when i leave and do not say goodbye.
it is hard to be in the apartment. 
surprised, i cry at work. a cat in the drive thru, you see.
his name is nox and he’s so friendly, she says.
he would let you pet him if only we were closer.
i cry as i put away your things. they live in the closet
waiting like a dowry for their inheritor, next playmate.
i can’t find your favorite toy. i know i will cry when i find it.
i cry at three am bleary eyed, refusing sleep like this
will stop tomorrow, like this will prevent going to bed alone
in a bed all wrong, too light, too cold, too big.
i cry on walks and i cry in the coffee shop writing this.
i cry and i cry, and it does nothing to bring you back.
i hate that you died alone. i hope it was so quick.
i hate the passage of time that takes me far away
from days and nights spent with you, more precious now
for all your sweetness, for the swiftness of your leaving.
i cry for all the love given, and mostly for all the love left over.
it should have been yours, sweet boy.

i do not think love is possession,
but i crave so badly to belong,
and to belong to someone,
in this world that undoes me
with its constant weighing,
in its endless choosing between,
as if i could ever know best, or enough,
when i have never been-

and i do not think me incomplete,
but i want so badly to be full,
and to give and receive fullness,
in this life that only takes
until there is nothing left but
empty hands, hands that do not,
cannot stay empty but instead reach
and hold and choose always to-

and i do not think, but i crave and i want,
and this world gives and receives,
and these empty hands belong to someone,
and this life undoes me, taking
until there is nothing,
always empty but for love,
who knows best,
choosing incomplete,
endlessly reaching-

and i think, enough. enough.

my lover calls me her sweet girl,
says she has never met anyone 
so sweet in her whole life,
and i know she means it.
know she thinks of me
like cotton candy,
spun sugar made delicate
and fragile and fleeting.
carefully she pulls me apart
with her fingertips,
and for one delicious moment
i am undone,
dangling in anticipation
before melting in her mouth
until nothing is left of me
but an aftertaste, cloying,
a sickly stickiness
lingering on her tongue.

in my dreams
a new lover calls me honey,
names me for my sweetness
and knows it will last,
and still licks traces of me
from the corners of her lips.
still she savors each taste,
deliberate in her devotion,
and i am not carefully undone
but instead thoroughly devoured,
like honeysuckle petals
pulled apart for nectar,
delicious and abundant
and perennial.

this new lover calls me honey,
and i do not know if it
makes her a honeybee, queen
of my honeycombed home,
but i think it means that we
will never go hungry.
that this saccharine love
will never spoil.

in my dreams 
my new lover calls me honey,
lets me kiss it from her mouth
into memory before waking.