We lived on paper
in the abstract idyl
of a lonely writer
in a small apartment
inside the District of Columbia.
We lived in an old Victorian.
He’d wake us up with the tapping
of his fingers on the keyboard
and I’d stutter a bunch
as he back spaced-deleted
something I think I wanted to say.
I was always glad he lined our street with Alders.
My lover was incredible
in all manners of incredibleness
and I’d show you pictures of her body
but there are no pictures
that the lonely guy added to his manuscript.
Our dishes were hand crafted ceramics.
Each sadness seemed to work itself out,
sometimes in oblique manners,
and ended up with a lot of kissing and hugging
and great sex soaring high into the atmosphere
on the visceral emotions
spawned by whatever disaster
was cured by a miracle.
It seemed like we were our own church.
One day I woke on my own without the tapping,
without a thought in my head
and I blinked a lot while looking around at everything
that now had a crow motif
including a tattoo on my left shoulder
I don’t remember getting.
My lover woke when my hand brushed her back
and she said after a moment’s thought
We could go back to page one
if you feel uncomfortable.