And so presume that in this scenario we met, preferably at a nice restaurant on the other side of town that served both beef and fish, both sparkling water and tap. Hopefully I had a latent cigarette, and when I tried to cry while reciting poetry the smoke came out of my eyes instead. It dribbled down the front of my shirt, and you wiped it clean with your hair. Not to be outdone, I detached my arm and used it to prop up the wobbly leg of your chair. When you protested, I told you even Rimbaud sacrificed an arm and nearly a leg for love.

Maybe I did not tell you that I wanted to speak with you without mouths, that I wanted to see each other without faces. Love, I said instead, was meant to be leashed by our bodies, but sometimes we escape. You ordered another appetizer, and I imagined what we would mouth against each other all night long: will you turn the lights off for me when I go blind? Will you carry me underneath the stars? Do you like the right or the left side of the bed? Are you a dog or cat person? Will you hold me when the room is only a half-filled bathtub for ghosts? Will you hold me when I ask to be held?


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