Too Much (Meghan)

Too Much

You said too much,

So I said too much,

But we really meant more than before,

too much to be contained in the all-weather jacket cool

we put on in the evenings when it’s quiet enough

on our couches and between our ears to remember

what your body looked like stretched out right here

while I puttered around the kitchen, setting timers

And to wonder what I’d say about that thing that happened,

and are you there to me more often than I’d like,

but the too much means I like it, if I’m honest?

So much is simple, and very much is what I said before, but

too much is scary

because it should be scary—is—

to beach-comb for intact shells and find this one

has soft pink markings and a speckled scar

you didn’t imagine but know you’ll miss

if you fumble the play.

You said too much.

I didn’t like it.

Implied deficiency, the too of too

and I’m nervous, but really,

that’s it, isn’t it?

You worked on me like a skeleton key

while I was sleeping.

Now we’re tracing outlines of the other

in my collar bone,

the space beneath your last rib.

There—her square shoulders,

narrow waist, and wide hips,

a moving silhouette of bouncing hair—

she looks too much like me.

He climbs from the clavicle hollow

to whisper in my ear.

I hear your smile and stir because

it’s much too much

too much.