Struck

I don’t remember how it happened.
Just the removal and glass meeting the skin,
And it was my skin I meant to say,
And, oh, that I might have loved him.
I digress: I mean that I love lots of things:
Cotton-candy, self-pleasure, a stiff drink,
Bottles and bottles of water, and you.
Only your hand isn’t here. It doesn’t belong
Here. Now does it? We aren’t snapping peas.
We aren’t making love under the stars
Or in the kale fields. You don’t strike me
To be the romantic type or angry-kind.
Only that last night was the first-time, and
No, not like that you pervert. That I spoke
Directly to him, to the camera, the double-
Sided window in which he stood, and I said
This earth is capable of such hurt, such pain,
And I could’ve swore I heard you scoff.
Apologies. Not you but him. You are kind
Enough a hummingbird should fly to your hand.
Only that I’m speaking to you, now,
Because he is far-gone
And, now, won’t ever listen.
Memory, keep your hand against my cheek.