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

Those days

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.