and named the alligators
we were in love.
When we lived on that third story
and decorated the windows with white lights
we were in love.
When we floated above farmlands
in a hot air balloon the shape of a boxing glove
we were in love.
When we lived in that dump
and you spooned the dog and I spooned you
we were in love.
When you nearly squeezed my thumb into dust
while watching The Exorcist in an empty theater
we were in love.
When your uncontrollable laughter
embarrassed me
we were in love.
When I exploded from the house
and you wept over an analog phone
we were in love.
When you called me years later
in the dry month of April
and told me I left the gas on in our lives
I left the front and back door open
and the neighborhood vandals
graffitied our dreams
I forgot to engage the emergency break
and our time slowly rolled backward
crashing into an intersection
I left our credit cards
on the counter in a soup kitchen
and we went bankrupt
we were still in love.
But here's how it is now:
The dogs live in a bathroom
The towels smell like piss
I sleep on the floor
I eat from filthy bowls
I count quarters and index my skin
I stack grief like wedding photos
and oxygen is reeled from my lungs
like fishing line spooled into a tense
coil all hope depends on.
I'm time traveling with termites
I'm arguing with speech therapists
I'm fist fighting with your perfume
I'm prying a bear trap apart
asking it what time the alarm should be set
before sticking my head into it neck deep
for good measure.
I'm walking between the world trade center towers
just like that French guy
we both admired
because he was so brave.
