Valentine

At first, we had ways of talking

That filled up the evening

Until some things could be said. It was a made-up

Situation in which lives could be lost.

Whatever that was now grows inside

Our bodies—a spongy, pulpy cell—

Causing pieces of paper we hold

In our hands to appear

And disappear. All I ask

Is to take me away from this place,

To another place, very much like

This place, where we can meet

And six months later

Be married. You laughed and went with me.