When We Kiss

I love as the prehistoric night sky looked
to those beneath it, but I long to feel
with a simpleton’s understanding of astronomy.
Every time we kiss, I taste your sadness.
It hits like that snap of fear when your mother
knocked on the bathroom door
as your fresh cuts bled into the bathwater.
I screamed from the bottom of the pool.
It’s where ten-year-old me hid.
There is a fish inside my brain
tapping its nose against the glass.
Sometimes I think you hear it.
Sometimes I think you’re deaf.
I told you about my marriage once.
Do you remember?
I was grateful you never brought it up again.
And still, I resent you
for never asking more questions.
What do you taste when you kiss me?
It is probably the gum I stopped chewing hours earlier.
I want you to taste this poem.