When the first manic episode came, we ate ice cream sandwiches
and I held you against the sink, naked, as you filled my mouth
with chocolate syrup. Rome was burning and I was losing myself
in your skin, your longings, as the sky outside turned to pink ash.
We went grocery shopping at 4 am, you running screaming
down the aisles, throwing boxes of Cheerios and instant pancakes
in the cart, the store lights flickering on and off with your footsteps.
The next day, you dumped the computer out a seven-story building
and watched as it crashed into glass on the ground below.
Hear that? you said. That’s the sound of my heart.
I couldn’t get you out of bed, so we didn’t get out of bed at all.
The darkness of the moon on the walls, the sparrows outside,
your chest rising like smoke beneath my hands. Everything blue,
blue, deeper than Picasso’s favorite shade. Every unspoken
particular hanging in the air between us: two bodies, inconsolable,
or maybe insoluble, we couldn’t tell which.
Some days your mind is like the Sunday horoscopes: looking up,
an unexpected visitor appears on your doorstep, new and fresh
things will happen, and other days it’s the ones that read
Today your own existence will wound you deeply.