every time I’m in the doorway of my apartment I think of you kissing me
the way you kissed me that night
you came back after being gone.
it was surprising. your grip. surprising
what the body can convey. quick visit
but enough for a lasting impression. that could be
the title of something starring us. do you think
that’s funny? do you like confessional poems
or find them mediocre? most days I walk
to the train with headphones in. think of you
on split blocks. deli, fish market, family dollar,
the J, the Bushwick rooftops stretching
past the tracks, buildings with windows
full of lucky and unlucky people. unlucky
to be born into this world, lucky to be alive.
luckiest of them all are the ones in love
I think, waiting for train times onscreen.
3 minutes. that lilt in your voice when
you’re about to make fun of something
you don’t like. your honesty reminds me
of my father. I left everything on my dresser
scattered the way it was after you slid me
on top of it and were between me,
head bowed. I’d spend the entire night
back there, existing in that moment
if it were possible. you with eyes
that gaze into distant corners of thought
you sometimes materialize. I barely
recognize myself here, ready to empty
and spread into an offering for you, table
covered in marigolds and gold coins.
you who can have anything you want
from me if you ask, who I whisper this to,
and mean: I love when you hold
my hand while you’re inside of me.
Lark Omura is a writer of mixed Japanese and European ancestry born and raised on the island of Maui. Her poetry can be found in The Rumpus, Prairie Schooner, The Offing, and The Hawai’i Review, among other places. She holds an MFA in poetry from Rutgers University-Newark.