Lying on the kitchen floor,
Under the table. Tears and linoleum
Mark your long absence
And the terrible wrench of an ambiguous goodbye.
When I arrived, you hold shy flowers you pretended
Not to give me.
When I left county, continent, jungle, you,
You ran back into the terminal (which you could
Do in that country
Without a ticket)
yelling, to appease me and because it was true – in that order –
that you loved me.
I laid with you in the jungle,
but you threw my hand down
like the boy, in that superhero movie who could
only be invisible if no one was looking.
That was your love for me.
I didn’t lie under a table in California again.