3/365: How It Would Be

trees

We walked until the edge of morning threatened our blue night,
when streetlamps still returned an electric glow off our damp skin,
when you introduced me to your claimed favourite tree.
It didn't matter that I would never believe you about the tree:
we had fabricated our way along in an exhilarant make-believe
that demanded I say yes, press myself to its trunk,
ignore how the bark scored my arm
until black blood spotted upward through a jagged cut.
You pressed your lips into the taste of me, a dangerous play,
but I could feel nothing now.
The sky had gone periwinkle.
I was late to get home.

Later, I felt our first hours erasing themselves by minutes and seconds,
consumed by the familiar even as I recounted them.
Narrative saved nothing, 
and I regretted the coming sleep whose dreams would be hungry
for just this sort of thing.

So, this is how it will be, I thought,
as the end's beginning ground itself in with a soft purr.
This is how.


I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.