After Rudy Francisco

 

we’re not starcrossed anything–

we talked a handful of times
during the small pauses in our shifts,
trading laughter at the expense
of retail playlists

you thought I had good
taste in wool and plaid,

I liked your blonde algebra–

I never learned
your relationship status,
or saw the bottom
half of your face,

but the possibility of catching
your glimmer made me want to jump
out of bed for the first time in–

                                        well,
I haven’t written anything
in months that could stand
without crutches–

this heart has more holes than any flute,
its mouthpiece rusted shut for well over a year

(love begins with calligraphy,
ends with a scrawl–)

and while this might not
be kindling for marital fires,
I hope another writer
tells you everything you need
to hear without stretching,

or leaving you
on an em dash—

​