A Relationship

one.

i liked him
because he knocked the ash
off his cigarette
with his left index finger;
once,
he was drunk
and burned himself
when he forgot to pull away.


two.

that day,
i ate two apples
a banana
and three rice cakes. he asked

do you always do this to yourself?


three.

the first couch was red:
soft synthetic fiber that inhaled
sweat,

quivered beneath our touch,
knowing.


four.

i like dogs,
he told me,
but i wish i owned horses;

he had a pony, once,
a shetland that hated brushing,
and we laughed.


five.

i was the first to say
i loved him,

but not before he
touched my collar where it
dipped,

smiling because
i let him pay for dinner
and my train tickets.


six.

he asked,

do you always do this to yourself?
when i told him
i didn't trust my
sex;

i listened.


seven.

i came home at six,
tired,
and he had quit
those cigarettes and asked
i do the same;

on the couch,
now brown and plush,
he left a pack
of Newports and said

found them at work.


eight.

at a movie,
sensational and scalding,
i touched his finger
where the burn had flaked
away with dead skin,

but we laughed
and laughed.