Kitchen

 When I remember you,
 I want you to remember me,
 not as I am now, but how it used to be,
 through the narrow opening of time,
 back to those days
 running fast from the open faucet:
 afternoons in the kitchen,
 the way you’d wet your finger,
 run it around the edge of the crystal bowl
 just to hear it sing,
 or find the beveled jelly jar, 
 fill it with the right amount of water,
 touch the side with a spoon to make music.
 You smiled, saying I was your only fan.
 Table and counters were not off limits.
 There was even that hour on the floor,
 linoleum pressing against my tailbone.
 How you looked at me, concerned I was cold. 
 After, we clinked champagne glasses. 
 You held yours by the stem, as if it were a flower,
 blew on the mouth of the empty bottle,
 bringing it to life with your very breath.
 Somehow, you forgot to inhale.
 I had to remind you to take back what you’d given,
 lest you forget yourself, suffocate 
 as I’ve done in memory, 
 as I’ve done in fantasy, 
 standing at the sink,
 rinsing out tumblers, 
 believing you might come back.
 Yes, that must be love.