The Sunday Poem (Ceci N’est Pas Une Love Poem)

prosecco pops in your hair

as he presses a kiss on your upper lip

that sends you reeling back 
open your eyes and see that his are closed

 in high school you dreamed of his track jersey
when he traces floral laces that protect your breast

you think about the morning
you’re always thinking about tomorrow and tomorrow

today is tomorrow and the next day you’ll be gone

that’s why he’s here
when he pulls away you’ll look up to the empire state 

and sit in the white silence of one in the morning

neither of you will have anything to say
you can’t escape 

because there’s nowhere you have to be
your friends are at the front of pastry cases

people point at them with widened eyes
but you are hard candies in glass jars 

reflecting in mirrors

and they buy you by the dozen to sit in pretty glass dishes
everything is flaking away like croissants

try to pick up the pieces with your thumb

and realize it’s not as satisfying as the whole
ice cubes snap when they touch your skin

that’s when you knew you were too warm


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