gas light

how often do you believe 
in perfection? we built 
each others bedrooms & swallowed
the spare screws. you used to write
my thoughts on a stickie note
& fold them before feeding each to me
softly as you would apple to horse.
there is no gasoline in the car.
it drives itself with a belly
of ghosts. sitting in your parked jeep.
rain trailing down the windshield.
you told me it was not raining
& so the precipitation entered through
a pin-sized hole in the back 
of my head. i drowned several times
in your bone broth. if you call me
husband, will i suddenly become 
what you wanted? we all have a wife
inside us who tells us to believe
whatever the teeth promise. 
is it optimism or fear? or is optimism 
just a kind of fear? i had 
a perfect diagram of what i needed to be.
you caught it like a pigeon & tore off
wings one at a time. i saw you once
stand on the building's roof & jump.
you flew & when you returned i asked 
"where did you go?" you laughed.
you kissed me like water kisses fire.
said, "i was here. i have always 
been here."