I came from the old country and didn't understand
everything that she said when we went out.
It didn't seem to matter as the car screamed
furious friction over the blacktop and her face
told me to just keep driving faster until
city lights splashed against alabaster skin,
the perfect canvas for these new rainbows
to dance along before flickering back into the dark.
I could say none of this to her but she will
ask for me to tell her about myself
as if history can be so easily given.
Maybe there's something ancient that carries over,
some kind of dark vague rage in the blood
that has left me to be so guarded.
I could not tell her of glass shattered everywhere
or how an explosion actually sounds more like
a deafening wind from the sudden vacuum
left by such a precise and violent science,
I could not tell her about the shrapnel
that makes me walk slightly off rhythm,
a messy but unique improvised note
that she seemed to be transfixed by.
She will not ask about my scar,
the story would take too long,
it is more like a photograph's memory
and the heart has to make it this way
when time abruptly ends all that is flesh.
I will not ask why a single tear hovers
as she finishes the last of her drink,
but a twinkle shines there when she
asks me to drive her back home.
I just wish I had all the right words,
all the things that she deserves.
And her apartment was special to me,
the air tinged with flowers and perfumes
she doesn't need to draw me closer,
she's already cupping my face
so softly as if I may break.