The war is over, and we are Beginning.

The morning after the truce, after I love you sounded like I’m sorry. Standing in your kitchen. The sun looking like winter might end even though it won’t. You hand me six kumquats, say one for each month.

My eyes feels like bruised fruit. I eat the first while tying my shoes. Focus on the bitter in my mouth, my breathing. My two eyes watch my hands to make sure they stay my hands. I don't look at you because I don’t know how yet.

The second in the car while I'm pulling away. Watch you get smaller like a picture of yourself.  

The third in my empty kitchen, spitting seeds into the sink. I'm mourning the We gobbled up by Almost.  

Upstairs, I cradle the fourth under my tongue for an entire afternoon. I can't swallow anything with your name caught in my throat.

With the fifth I kiss every piece of me you would if you were here: hip, thigh, glide across the stomach, the sternum. I trace my palms and believe in life lines for the first time. They race like water to the edge of my hand.

I carry the sixth into my backyard. I want to bury this, but winter. But nothing seems to grow after I’ve touched it. But I never met your father. But bars at 2am. The sun is all knees and trembling hands. I miss when your face looked like your face.

I don’t know where the truth ends and metaphors begin, but I think that’s where I live. Here is what I know: I never meant to miss you so long. 

-b