This morning the bed is a giant wrinkle of white sheets,
and you’re still sleeping beside me, your black hair
is just as messed now as it was when we met,
and my mind is filled with jump-cuts of
you holding my arms, holding me against
the back of the hotel door with your foot firmly
planted between mine, and of me leaning
against the bar ordering a Scotch, neat, and of you
taking a long look at my cleavage and giving me a
perfect Sinatra smirk and, naturally, I give you my best
Ava Gardner arched brow, and on the street you
held my face in your hands and kissed me, and
the curve of your side just under the flat of your shoulder blade,
where my palm smoothed your skin, flashes through
my mind, and somewhere along the way, perhaps in the cab,
we discover we’re both born under the sign of Pisces,
and this seems to explain everything.