You, framed softly by the doorframe
after a promising first date, looking down at me,
expectant. I can only think about your hands.
We do not end up kissing.
Instead we bump noses and then I come inside
and lock the door behind me,
When a week has passed and still,
you have not called, I wonder if it is maybe because
I have my father’s face. Or if you have somehow
seen old writing of mine on the internet somewhere,
and have been scared off by how I have written
about a past love, all bloody and fanged.
I practice dry swallowing pills in the bathroom,
count the number of scars and sunspots
on my skin. I burn candles and crush the blackened
wicks with my thumb and forefinger. All the boys
I’ve kissed after you look exactly the same.