May 20

Six Feet

Six for the feet swelling between us,
cold without the socks and shoes of mismatched hope.

Five for the hours we spend each night pretending
we're in love with a screen instead of each other.

Four, the flowers I grew in my garden,
each one watered by salt water and
fed with the dreams of a love not so forbidden. 

Three, the rubber bands my brother shot at us Sunday night...
The last time I saw you, the last time I saw anyone.
Blue ribbons becoming birds, learning how to fly.
We learned how to fly too that night.
The difference is...
rubber bands can't hold hands.

Two for the time, the fine hour of 2:00
hen I am released, free to be another virtual persona.

One, an ode to my left arm.
Harboring a jungle of bracelets along
with the 67 days I have been in quarantine.
Reminding me of the 1,608 hours
I have been without you.