about ineluctable postcards

i’m going to need this some day;
silly string bodies
on eden afternoons
your hair my jungle gym
dazed & clear in ladybug spring
 
why, you ask, tingling with smile 
is it for one of your secret love poems?
spider fingers dance up my back
you’re sure my laugh betrays a yes
mouthfuls of chapstick and plum
i let the lie slide
 
it was a sun-licked February
i, my worst self, ever dazzling
as orange juice and rum hung over
joking kisses by careless bleachers
where your drunken twin
forgot my shy truth:
i don’t write about skinny love
 
i live this – you - in two timelines:
 
one where we are traipsing around March
eyes vernal like pasqueflower fingers 
stretched into a sprite starday
 
and another,
where March is lived as memory
a waiting postcard for when it’s over
clenching sand, eventual nebula
because of me or you or a bug or a tide 
 
so when spring caves to sour mangoes
the fights will begin to boil over,
and i will mine minutiae from your shouts 
what do you need this for? you will exclaim
 
it is only March
and i can already hear the burnt confession -
for the poems i’ll need to write
after.
            after?
 
June will be a lonely month.
i knew so in February
when i memorised the curve
of the easter shell you flicked  
 
 
we were trying to cook scrambled eggs –
there was too much milk.
i would know.