Cupid's Bow

I would ask you out dancing,

but I can’t dance

and I’m married

to a woman I make

be my mother because my mother

took such good care of me.

I would have liked to have

my hot awkward, early aughts

teenage romance with you

flip phone pressed to my ears

until they sweat into suction cups

hanging on your every word

about The Last Airbender

and your expanding rose quartz collection,

your favorite, heart-shaped

only plucking my ear from the phone

at the behest of my mother

calling me for dinner.

To dance, to be married:

two things you can do

even though you’re bad at them.

I’m bad at this too, letting the door close

and cut off the frail threads

our syllables were stitching between us.

The cupid’s bow on your upper lip draws taut

as you smile. We’re walking

our separate ways. Mother’s calling

time for dinner and I smile through

another arrow in my heart as I imagine

you dancing with somebody else.