Saturday You

In my dream kitchen, you are standing amongst jungle green
tiles and the white wood we once dreamed about.

It is a beautiful Saturday morning.
Hummingbirds are levitating outside the bedroom window,

amber foliage, wake-up sex, and you:
gleeful, shirtless, and cooking a breakfast that I will never taste.

I have never seen this Saturday you.
Never tasted a naked promise, which is a promise only

uttered by hot breaths which you call “longing”.
I’ve only ever been loved by you.

Held by you. Sat in your arms looking at you, as you
kissed my leaking eyelids.

Like a river, you must’ve hoped that salt could bring you
to the core of me. A core which you must’ve hoped

was like a cathedral at night. My heart would be the confessional,
and my fingers, the isolated pews. The myth of us,

less a soul choir, and more a blood bible.
No one takes the bread

that has not first knelt in the dark and spoken truer
words. Afterall, no lover wants to taste, in the night, the iron cast

of a first blood they did not shed.
I only know how to grasp with an open palm,

the same palm that I used to push you away from me, or
to brush away the baby hair stuck on your cheek.

In your forest, you let me show you the young oak tree
rooted in the axe that cut its evergreen.

You even watered it for me, tore strips of linen
to bandage its broken branches.

But on Saturdays, I still sit across from my father at
a dark oak dining table.

The flowers on my countertop are as grey as gargoyles.
They are ready to die.