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