I love you the way dogs love people they will

only ever see once, which is to say I love you

with an eagerness that belies my time. At the park 
yesterday, a girl lost her grip on her golden retriever

and the big old thing ran straight over to me
as if some god had so compelled it to. In the grass

beneath those shade trees, I felt that dog’s small 
breath skimming over my face and I imagined

you must have felt something the same that 
last Friday evening we spent together, when

the two of us lay in bed facing each other
and I told you about a myriad of things that both

of us knew would no longer matter in the morning.
You held my shoulders and rubbed small circles

all over them—small circles whose tracks I can 
trace into my skin even now—and told me

that someone would one day know me in the way 
I deserved to be known. Neither of us spoke

aloud the thought that you were not that person, 
neither of us broke through the dark veil

of the evening as it fell over our heads. Did 
you love me, then? Not in the way that a dog

would love—did you love the way I surrendered
to you because I knew that you were the only thing

capable of giving me warmth? As that dog fell 
asleep in my arms, I imagined that you must have

loved me, even if it was only a dim part of you 
that was too small to climb out of the back of you

-r throat. I loved that dog, you know. I loved 
you. I am still trying to forget how to.

Read more from Issue 20.2.