The chairs we sit in are steel

horses, sad and dead. What you said

at the gallery in the warehouse was

to you, I have only given death and cookies.

Or corpses confused with candy.

Your cheeks puff, withdraw.

You’re silver in ceramic.

If I were a romantic I’d say

you belong in the painting.

Longing, always. But I am

a romantic. When we strolled

the botanical gardens we found longing

in the plants deemed poisonous.

How close I get to each sweet thing.

How close it feels to death.