69
You know ten years don't matter to me,
that when you drew your too-sharp fingernail
across the black nylon, I'd still be here,
saying we just danced—didn't we just dance?—
trying to pull your forearm through the hole,
trying to get my head through just one drink,
just one drink, wherever you want to meet,
because you know, you and I, you know.
We don't weep, and the sky falls when we blink.
In this life, there are some kinds of orphans,
who lie in the depth of this very well.
You and I, we know there are no stars.
You and I, we've come to the hour agreed.
originally published in The Denver Quarterly