Two cigarette butts— left by you
the first time you visited my apartment. The next day
I found them, they were still there—
picking one up, I put my lips where yours had been…
*
Our not-love is like a man running down a mountain, who, if he dares to try to stop,
falls over— my hand wanted to touch your hands
because we had hands.
— Frank Bidart, from “In the Western Night”


















