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When I realize
what I’m writing,
I long to go back
through the note
with an eraser and
change the pronouns,
because I don’t want it
to be true
either.

I wonder if Kurt looked
at the shotgun
while he wrote,
then I wonder what I might use.
I wield no weapon but these words;
that they are so blunt an instrument
is part of why
I consider the end.

A kiss is the beginning of all things—
two breaths made one make a third.
I wonder then: if a kiss can be
a comma,
a question mark,
or an exclamation point,
who gets to choose
which kind of punctuation
I end with? Me,
or You?