Remember the days spent naked
in my little pink room, the space
between us squeezed of emptiness.
Giggling over which limb to kiss,
we thought darkness meant night
and the warm bed we slept in.
Remember the first flat we lived in—
flecked wallpaper, all the bulbs naked,
the flick of a switch flattening the night.
We cooked up magic chilies in the elbow space,
felt each brush of limbs as a kiss.
We put up prints to cover the emptiness.
Remember how we rolled through the emptiness
of our first Christmas, you trapped in
Mayo, the flat silent, just the cold kiss
of damp December winds through naked
city trees. I hated the quiet and the space
you left, blamed you for each sleepless night.
Remember that big fight, the night
I stormed out. You almost cried, said emptiness
was for beer glasses and outer space.
Didn’t take much to suck me back in—
a phonecall at work, ambushed by your naked
voice—one word and I gave you my kiss.
Remember the day we forgot how to kiss,
so that going to bed together each night
meant taking off clothes, not stripping naked.
How our little flat gaped with an emptiness
we had hidden before. We moved in
angles, avoiding the corners of tables, and space.
Remember the first itch for space?
Me, it was the third morning that your kiss
tasted of bile and egg, and in
that count I decided—not one more night
rolling over in the flat sheet emptiness
of our double bed, our loathing dark and naked.
I wanted you naked, to press out the space
we held, the emptiness behind each kiss.
The flare of heat the last night I asked you in.