PATRICK GRACE

Fission

Another word for love eludes me.
I’m thinking of the man
with his name
in coloured lights
on the wall.
Enter the door
and be filled with newness.
We’ve stopped talking
but the nights continue.
It’s what we do,
a series of firsts. When at last
we exhaust the afterward,
the body’s fusion,
we split in two.
Tomorrow I’ll say my name
to a stranger for the first time.
His hair will be blond and soft
and my face will hurt
from too much smiling.
I’ll know this man because I’ve loved them all.