i.
i let you cook in the same kitchen to make you trust me. this – an instance of peeling potatoes, or when you offered to crush the garlic and i said “no i’ll do it”, or that time you set an apple slice against my mouth and just waited (waited for me to part my lips so my breath could drop onto your fingers just once, “just once” you told me) – this is me showing you my belly. this is my trust. a sign that says: STAB HERE. TENDER MEAT FOR DINNER. but you, gutless and still holding the knife, you lack courage. you’ll never stab.
ii.
oh, dumplings? i’ve helped make those. remember. me rolling out wrappers into lopsided shapes, little wannabe circles, 2D dented moons. you scooping filling with your sliced fingers. your nails were devilred that time, a holdover from halloween. still dancing around and between each other after that night, still waiting to finish boiling, to reach proper temperature. putting down newspaper to catch our coming mistakes while the woman we’re both in love with watches the stove.
iii.
do we even talk when we get high at three am? or three pm for that matter. all i know is we make coffee every time. (and maybe there’s a discussion there.) run caffeine machines, hospital cafeterias, corridors of endless blinking lights in our skulls. stand still, trees rooted in the hardwood of our grandparents, headaches building, as we wait for the beep across the house. the test you left on the bathroom counter complicates things – switching to decaf will really do a number on you, buddy.
iv.
the hot chocolate lives in us. she makes it when i’m crying and you’re working late. back to the lowlit stove, she wanders and works. i start my shaky orbit, bang my hip against the peninsula of counter and the fridge and the silverware drawer. watch her stir some magic in a pot as big as my head, watch her take the salt from my cheeks and swirl it in the mess. when she ladles it into our mugs, the cat winds between her legs, trips her up so muddy love drips down to the handle. my hands a little sweet as we wait for you.
v.
it’s me, you, and her. she goes out with her boyfriend of the month and we spend our time together on the couch. curled in our lonely corners – i’m trying to land these dried cranberries on your tongue but they keep sticking to my fingers. you say the ones that hit are the right kind of sour. i take this to mean a tempered note that twists but doesn’t wrinkle. when the bag empties, your mouth and my hands match in their residual stick. their pale red stain. their ghosts of cranberries past.
vi.
the one time you were gone, so obviously you can’t remember, she and i lived on the balcony. the one that holds itself up with peeling paint. the one older than any of us, and stronger too. (first confession: i did let her push me around a little. kiss me near to the edge. then she got chatty.) the more things she smokes but doesn’t say the more i scrape green from the railing. flick it off my nails and into the grave of your old tomato plant – never quite gave us red. only a yellow that got sicker every week you stayed away. (second confession: i only tell you this because i saw the cat watching from the other side of the glass door. i was afraid he’d tell you first.)