Matt Swartz, the object of the poet's affection, looks for the space between. Photo credit: Blake McCord (IG: @blakemccordphoto)

On This Day, One Year Ago, I Met You
 
In the space between
The September eighteens
I have not stopped my falling.
 
You look for the space between,
The press against,
And there is not a knot
That I can tie
To hold you close.
 
“Pinch jugs,” you say,
And grip my hips and pull me close.
“And these,” you say,
“Are slopers,” and your hands
Press upward against my breasts.
 
And I cannot stop my fall.
 
My fall begins with the golden leaves
That cling, and tenaciously cling,
Shadowed by a raven’s wing.
“Hey guy,” you say,
And I fall, with no belay.
 
In you, I look for the spaces between,
The cracks in your façade,
Where I may jam a hand
Into a hold
Onto your heart.
 
I may yet fall.
 
I will not fear, though,
As the turning of another year
Comes near,
I will look to you, to that space between.
It is narrower than it used to be.