i used to let you backhand me across
the face because crying turned you on.

your palm stung and burned my cheeks
bright red, but it was strangely beautiful.
you called me your little dahlia, your little
candleflame, and kissed my jaw where
your fingers left treadmarks.

you said:
"love means making sacrifices."

i said nothing, just wiped away a few
premature tears and traced the fireworks
blooming on my face.

you used to fall asleep in the grass with
me, and we'd wake up with petals stuck
in our eyebrows and grass stains on our
lips. our lazy kisses tasted like rain.

i say:
"love means throwing handfuls of grass at
each other. love means 3:00 AM bubble
baths. love means wishing on shark teeth
and broken seashells and stoplights."

"okay, sweetie," you say absentmindely,
brushing errant twigs from my hair.
"what comes on tv tonight?

one year later you asked me what love
meant again, but by then it was much
too late.

you asked:
"is it holding hands? remembering to buy
cereal? letting me touch you under the
table at the restaurant? breathing you in?
letting you come first when we're making
love? believing? does love mean that you're
going to give me one more chance?

i say:
"yes, no, no, yes, no, yes, no,"
and open the door.

you say:
"can i fuck you one last time so i
don't forget how your body feels?"

i say:
"i have to go."

if you really cared to know--
love means that the only reason i
should ever cry is if they are tears
of happiness.