if you left for fishing tomorrow
I’d wait for you at the door
like a dog
I lap up all the quiet certainties
and wish I bit my tongue more
in the grand scheme of things.
I promise I will never be gone long enough
to notice how much your buzz cut grew,
but just hold my hand a little longer
each day until it’s harder and harder
to let go
the “gone fishing” sign whacks against the doorframe
and I wish I could say
I’ll do anything.
my worst habit is watching everything unsaid
dance behind your eyes:
I imagine they look like heat waves
and suddenly I’m 16 on vacation in Greece
hoping the boy will still be there when I get home,
hoping, waiting
I hate fishing
but if you left to go fishing tomorrow
I’d just leave with you