You always drove with the windows rolled down, even when it rained. Once we saw a man standing on a highway median clutching his briefcase to his chest. He looked the way happiness might feel just before a heart-attack. I wanted to stop the car, get out in the middle of traffic, and ask this stranger what he carried in the front pocket of his double-breasted suit.
Pockets are intimate, I said, and you laughed. You tilted back your head in that way that made me want to kiss your throat.
We met on a Sunday afternoon at the laundry mat. You winked at me as we both watched a woman in a dizzy floral housecoat jam the public washers by shoving thick nickels into the slim spaces of quarter slots. You winked, and I knew that to love you would be like a conspiracy.
I wrote a poem about that woman’s pockets, how they jangled like a love song. I sat barefoot in your car. You turned down the radio that was, at that moment, playing your favorite song. You listened to me read my verse, struggling with the imperfection of the last line.
That night we lay together. You used a ballpoint pen to draw the pyramids on the small of my back. You kissed me like a monument. I walked naked across the room to turn on your stereo. Your eyes watched me move as if I was the eighth wonder of the world.
I played your favorite song. As it swelled above our heads, I came back to your bed. The moon grinned crookedly in the sky. Through the window it shone on your lips that kept repeating my last imperfect line. Slowly and tenderly, I let those words fall against my skin.