you are the grass, I am a girl

the curled hollow of my hip 

in the shape of your hand 

hold me there

time runs away from us

novel tucked in his armpit

The Secret History

by Donna Tartt

where is she?

I think, "Where am I?"

not myself

when I am in your company

through the windows

in your little kitchen

there are you 

and your laughing friends

bruised grass reaching 

where you lay

"I could cut myself

right here," 

is what I think

apricot jam butterknife

in the curl of my palm

waiting

breathing quietly

it is a knife, but it could be 

other things

I am a girl

but I could be other things:

the hungry hollowness

of my hips 

and the shape of your hand

curled into the grass

your friends

laughing

always 

there isn't a sad moment

we are desperately satisfied

I am wanting

but this is my flaw

isn't it? 

that when we are reduced to ourselves,

still

I am sitting 

in your little kitchen

and through the window

you are the grass

bruised and reaching