To Disagree

We continued to have
the same fight
of who knew first.
I still think I win.
Because I consider
the damp night
at Egan’s
when I gave you
the eye and saw you
receive it.
Or when I happened upon
your office door,
the blinds cutting at
your collarbone,
and I entered—you with your
cooling soup and
nonchalance.
Without flinching,
you let me finger
the scar down the back
of your neck.
The Cuban café,
sweetened condensed milk,
our knees pointing to
each other’s joints
from scooted bar stools.
I knew before all that.
And the art show,
with her in hand,
her plum eyeshadow,
your goosebumped
arms’ slack grip.
And after.

And then.
When I followed your scribbled
directions, led me
behind the bakery,
your black t-shirt approaching
in hasty step.
We sat on
the futon, pretending
to be engaged in the box
of photographs, so attentive
to one another’s
chests, rising and falling
and catching.

That’s when you said it.
And to speak it was not
nearly as smooth as the
feeling it. But I was still
first, you know.
I came to believe you that night
at the reading.
That elongated room
of unfamiliar people,
all staring at your
hand on my leg,
at us, unfazed
by such tradition.
That was the best reading
of your life, you said,
and it felt like
a film reel,
proverbial,
revived.
Recall the days
of blustery walks
past the taco stand where
Nate greeted us by name.
Remember October
when you wore the wallflower
costume I painted,
the plastic rose poking
your skin through the cardboard.
What about my birthday song,
the vacuum cleaner you doodled
on the copy, initials smeared
at the bottom.
It was of these things I began
to erase.
The trips I made
less frequent.
The bakery light dimmed.
The photographs shifting into
another frame of what was.
And I was first.
And you were
there,
left in the afterward.