"it is 6am and all i have is the last meme you sent me", Jocelyn Suarez
because we have no other language for this tenderness
than to laugh at it. so un/used to the sting of brimming
in a cup and letting it overflow. except when you curl
into yourself and seek my skin over yours
and i feel the soft underside of your body
for a moment. or the times you stop mid-
sentence to kiss my face. or when you stared
straight into sunlight and my eclipse of it
to say, how lovely. no more words were ever
necessary. we, never the type to cast lots in poetry.
not us, no. we make do with the unclenching
laughter permits. what we lack in romancing
we make up for silly. i watch the dawn spill
from the horizon until the sky is so full that the
morning empties itself and i don’t think of you. not
really. when the birds start screaming, i do
a little. i have switched to drinking tea. when i get
wine-tipsy, i resist drunk-texting. when we
share a bed, we leave a space in between,
conscientious in the idea of taking up
space by offering it in exchange. we have
no song. we display affection in shit-
talking. we laugh way too much
because of this. that is enough. it must
be. one night, in your sleep, you reached for my
hand and held it. in my unconscious surrender,
i allowed myself to fill the space you
offered. i still feel the muscle-deep memory
of our skin connecting. a tangle of fingers so
simply satisfied with a moment too wholesome
for the waking. some nights, i think of
writing that down in a love poem, make words
out of it, out of this. but i don’t: i wake up at 6am
and read your memes instead.