I always think this will be the last time.
Just in case, I collect what I can:
Shafts of light on your skin.
How your body curls automatically into the fetal position
when you sleep but how you do not miss your mother.
How we sit in the bathtub and wash each other’s backs,
discuss the weather and our families.
Watching how water has carved itself into you
when you stand up and wrap us both
in the biggest towel that I own.
I think strange, impossible things that I do not say out loud,
like maybe my hands could have been born for you.
That my body is clay and your heat is the only thing
that makes it warp and soften. Do you know the miracle in this?
The tenderness with which you cook my eggs in the morning.
We are impossible like New York City is impossible.
Our bodies will probably betray us in the end,
but your mouth will always be my favorite punchline.