Uncoupling

The things she forgets, that I called her
by her last name when we slept
together, that we were each looking
for something we couldn’t say, holding
the barest moments hostage on skin
& on paper, that I would be nothing
like her in the end, no lilies to say
I dare you, I dare you, please don’t—
that everything & nothing changed
when the leaves fell & the sky whispered
itself grey as the charcoal in her hand
when she sketched limes, blood
oranges, that the snow slushed
into the wailing creek & we swam,
that it was like diving for pearls
blindfolded in oil-gunked debris,
over & over, in numbing flesh
& everyone knew what we were
searching for but our own bodies
& when our knowing finally came,
resting heavy like the morning dew
on the spider webs, it would be
unwieldy & spurred by spring thaw
gnashing into the creek-sides,
that we wouldn’t know how to be
reckless anymore, that we would learn
to be small & cautious & afraid,
& once it was all over & done with
we would speak of each other
the way one speaks of the dead—
fondly, with respect to what is done.