Things I Should Say Before I Fall

I don’t need an explanation
for the past—
it isn’t mine.

I can’t define
what it is I feel
when you’re gone—
a hollow ache in my chest,
like something essential is missing.

I watch you cross
my parking lot in darkness,
and I know
you are here,
with me.

I want to be
with you.
I’m tired
of asking questions.

I don’t want to hurt—
anyone,
especially myself.
But I wonder:
Can I be like this?
Can I be without it?

Is it love
to hold only
the laughter,
the talk,
your warmth beside me?

To live for the moments
you’re here,
and try not to ache
when you’re not?

Can I jump
when I can’t see the ground?

You lick your lips
before you kiss me,
and I wonder
why they’re never chapped—

like you’ve never known
the cold
the way I have.