Where the Collarbones Try to Meet [poem]

Where the Collarbones Try to Meet

I wonder what the first part
of your life looked like
what it might have been if
we knew each other right from the start
I regret the missed childhood
that might’ve happened
—I was born a little too early.

I want this to be the most beautiful thing I might ever write
Every word must like and love:
to sort of say
sorry we didnt meet sooner

We’ll meet in college
I’ll sit tombstone still behind you in class,
more scared of our professor than I am of how attractive you are
because—
sitting behind you—
I listen and learn your voice before I ever see your face for the first time—
The words from the professor’s mouth I’ve never heard before
But you respond with words even
stranger and foreign—
I tried my best to hide how simple I was
with little words and small ideas—
something I’d have to get better at
to impress you both.

And years later you invited
me over to your apartment after watching gifted students of your own sing
It was fall and humid and after we sat down
you took off your dark leather jacket and I,
paralyzed, hypnotized
saw the hidden part of
your warn neck glow—
the part where your collarbones try to meet like honey, dripping lovely.

I never looked for long, only enough
to see those crescent ridges rise in
tension with your inhale before
returning in respire—rhythms of
an earthquake tremoring beneath your chest—
I should have just said
how beautiful, bilingual
gold and brown.

I left our little moment late that night under
drifting stars—diamonds—surging with nuance after I tell you
im sure we can talk until the sun rises
after you tell me im scared of ghosts
after I tell you dont ask me yet—youll have to wonder what my answer is until i see you again
after you tell me you could have slept on the couch if you wanted to
I drove an hour to drink more of the wine you handed me

Now I only ever see pictures of you
dreams of again whispering around the low lamps by your couch, sometimes
waking and rubbing my own collarbones
Impressions to remind me of my own
star struck dumb luck.
Does it even matter why I still remember
all those little images?

Tonight I look over all the little notes I wrote for you, about you
wandering and wondering over the pages
plenty enough stained with maroon splotches and splashes of fortunate old wine
I’ll fill a glass for you and hope the next I can share with you—
how old can wine get?
how old will wining get?

Tonight I study a page free of blemishes
and time
I swing over to the lines
I wonder what the first part of Honolulu looked like—