Nothing New

There’s nothing new
or unique
about the way you make me feel
as you walk towards me in a parking lot
after weeks without seeing you.

You smile
and I smile, too
as if your teeth
could control me
like a marionette,
like pulling strings.

You are the sun, I dare fly too close.
You make my skin dark and my hair light
reversing the polarity of my biology
like only you can do with my mood.
You are the blanket, patchwork and worn
that I cannot sleep without.
You are the star, and I
the stargazer,
but thank God, we agree,
that Petrarch is dead.

You are Guinevere
and I, your Lancelot.
My life is yours
No, Gawain-
horny and untrue
No, Perceval-
what were we talking about?
No. Lancelot.
You insisted,
and now I fight against myself
(that’s symbolism.)

In the parking lot
I stand for hours
I bake, blister, and burn on the asphalt.
You are the shade of the trees,
your breath is mountain pine wind,
your touch is balm,
your kiss is Gilead.

Nothing unique.
Nothing new.
Even now.

A woman sings in French
but all I can understand
are my fingers intwined with yours
and your poet’s eyes
filling my head and heart with cliches.
I welcome them and rejoice.