There was a December when my lungs froze over after you stole
my breath and left me with only fluid running through my bronchial tubes.
As a precaution against making this a regular occurrence,
I try to think of you as a handful of cells instead of as an ocean
in the shape of a thunderstorm that never ends,
but there’s always something beautiful about a man
whose laugh can get stuck in my windpipe like a thief
in a laundry chute. You once joked that there were so many
mixed feelings running between us that we were
like scrambled eggs, although salmonella has never really been
my top concern so long as we catch it together.
Forgive me for always being the vinegar to your water;
I am full of potholes and sometimes
I have trouble letting people in to my rubble.
And I have sworn off falling in love with the same man twice,
but I have never been able to sling curse words
with enough venom to hit their target.
Like jump ropes, they trip me up.
