The First Face You Saw

I wanted mine to be the first face you saw
coming out of surgery: lingering at the mouth
of the operating theatre. I imagined blood
as I waited; bodies at the mercy of discerning
hands, cut open by strangers. I remember
you recounting biology lessons, dissecting
an animal and the humbling truth of its insides
for the first time. “Everything fit perfectly”. We

do not collapse into each like that, the way
lovers should. You are open like the best
endings, I am a conclusion wound tight around
secrets: Words left over from the last time
I loved. You are right: I find no beauty
in the everyday, in leaves coaxed by gravity
to ground, in the symmetry between soil
and sky. You should know by now: I write

because I cannot connect, cannot marry
miracle to matter, metaphor to meaning,
head to heart: This anesthesia I am under
will not wear off like love, drugs, this thing
that is us: Yet still, I wait. Will breathe
again as your body is rolled back towards
mine: You are mine, if only for now. Slipping
out of sleep: Let my face be the first you see.