you used to leave on thursdays
bring back gifts on tuesdays
open your palm to reveal
some slight circle of ill-fitting tin

you looked at me, waiting
for my hand, an offering, anything –
you said i looked at you like
like in a way you couldn’t even
explain. i offer the idea of wings
because that’s what it feels like –
broken, beating against a window, but
you used wings as in soaring
and i’d say, “what?”
you’d mumble, “everything” –
then offer silence.
as i fumbled your cheap ring
you’d give me that frown and
start a fight with your own fingers as
i’d watch colors change around mine –
as curtain red and tornado green
settled into murky blue
you’d say, “look at the sky”
all I could think was
how dreadful all those stars