I wrote this next to you on the train

You told me the clouds look like they’re kissing and turned expectant and I showed you that move he taught me with my tongue in your ear and then you turned it on me, you said people do what they want done to them, and you were right. Remember when everything I did turned you on? I used to love visiting you at work, your black shirt and hands knifing lemon rinds, a guy at the bar tucks my hair behind my ears and you said I could have gone home with him but you were so surly at dinner I nearly left you there. When I flew back from Rome I ran straight to your bed, he left in the middle of the night and I’d tighten my nails around your forearm as you snored so you couldn’t do the same. All summer we swam in stormwater runoff when your parents left town. You read me Anne Carson on the train back from our final date then held still so I could doze in your arms, at the arcade you’d tried to win me a stuffed Yoda in the claw machine, desire is no light thing, you bet.