Time is a messy lover,
unable to be drawn in a straight line
and no matter how hard I try to
recall its gifts in order,
my thoughts bend like light through water
and in its reflection,
there is my bedroom walls painted purple,
poetry scribbled on the closet doors,
a thousand secrets blooming
from the worn-down carpet,
you reading me poetry books
from another country
your voice hanging on the pronunciation
of foreign words
and a foreign world
in which you want me
to be the mirror,
to craft the words right into you,
right into what it means to be you,
right into what it means to be you
passing through me,
and what it means to be me,
holding onto you,
into what it means to be me,
reflecting you back to yourself,
into what it means to be me,
having loved you,
but I, too, am a messy lover,
distorting the memories until
they can no longer hold their shape,
and no matter how badly
I want to write poems that say
I thought you were beautiful or
something was alive here once or
I think of you fondly or
it all existed or
none of it did
the light changes its direction
and in its reflection it becomes
clearer that the words
are crafted line break
by line
break
not to hold a mirror up to you,
but so that I can more clearly
see me.