A Dream About You, Again (and Again and Again)
You stand in the deep end
of an empty swimming pool.
It’s a box inside a box —
everything gray-green concrete
even the sky. It might be the color
of your eyes. You say nothing
while I talk from the edge.
If I fall in, surely I will break.
I am in a square room
at a gray party — I know everyone; I know
no one. I sip champagne
until you arrive, all that missing color
concentrated in you. Everyone evaporates
through the walls. For months
I waited for you to say “I want you
back,” but I can’t look at you
when you do. Every part of you
implores me, but the electricity in your hands
only hurts me now, and I resist.
Purged from the almost-yellow
of our tiled high school walls,
I board the Bayonne bus knowing
you will take one to Jersey City.
Across the aisle, your best friend
looks at me like I am a fish
unaware of its bowl. You board
my bus; the cracked brown leather
sticks to my thighs like tar. Trapped between
the window and your body, I squirm
when you tell me you love me.
I’m trying to leave, but there’s nowhere