When you’re loving me you are cheating, she said, because you are married to the light.
When you were a child you would turn the kitchen lights off at night and stare into the flames inside the oven and you would think about the light. You would stare into candles and pale torches and patio spotlights and pilot lights and trafficators and red thimble sized safety bulbs and the glowing kettle filaments and you would think about the light.
You would grow up to be a photographer, they said, because of the way you worried about the light.
You wrote her glaring love poems. She reads them wearing sunglasses. She reads them smiling while dishevelling her hair then she peeks at you blinking as though she had spots in her eyes from lifting her head and looking at the sun.
Her soft legs // wedged // a sopping supernova // blaring with love // and light.