“When were there ever any answers?”
You asked me that when we were in love
and I kissed your hand, our fingers interlaced,
a strong indication I didn’t know what to say,
and I told you I only looked for clever questions,

to which you replied: “you lie poorly,”
sweeping me into an alternate universe in which
all of this happened, in which we are still looking
at each other, still asking how to hold galaxies
in the canyons between our touching fingerprints. 



By Heidi Turner