You’re carrying around a picture of the wrong girl
left over from this summer, and I’m afraid that hers
is the face you’re kissing goodnight
when the sun sets over California.
Here in New Hampshire, I’m shaking in my skin
at the thought of you coming back in three months,
and the anticipation rips butterflies from my stomach
and sends them out my mouth.
I haven’t told you yet that I was a virgin
before we pressed ourselves together
in the back seat of your car, and that I didn’t even know
the meaning of the word “spontaneous”
until you were all hands and mouth
and glorious, incredible beauty.
I’m envious of the steel-strong airplanes
that got to carry you inside for hours longer than I did –
I finally understood the idea of “full.”
Now I’m solving equations, trying to calculate
how many hours until you’ll be back.
I don’t think you knew I had never climbed onto the roof
to count the stars until you had coaxed me up there
with soft words and softer hands;
we couldn’t last, not between my shy introversion
and your exuberance.
You said you were my Orion,
and you’d chase the sky to find me,
but all I saw were three stars and
and vast you were.
I’d never seen a world so expanded
until you had shown me yours.