I slice oranges in the kitchen.
The countertop worn, notched
with the story of the knife.

I’ve been reading Ovid’s “The Cure for Love.”
You circle my waist with your arms —
kiss the back of my neck.
I remember who we were —
the girl and boy on the front porch
cooling our heels on our way
to the grave.
We believed we could make something
in the dark.