Grasshoppers

I heard once that grasshoppers
only see in stop-vision:
still frames
instead of moving pictures.

Sometimes I think that
that's the only way
that I can think
about you and me.

There's my car, filled with
your six kittens,
when I wept
and it was time to go
but we couldn't just
leave them.

There's my little girl bed,
with the sheets always
pulling off
and the pillow that was always yours,
and the one that was
always mine.

And there's a line of tiny glasses
full and balanced on the chair
and there's your eyes
and there's your mouth
and there's you talking
about my hair.

And there's us, against a
chain link fence
when the sun was coming up
and us, in a tunnel
underground,
with all the puddles we had to
jump.

Us, alone and slightly
out of place
in so many different places
but always together.

And I'm not sorry
for everything I gave to you
and I'm not sorry
for what you gave me back.

And we did a lot
and we didn't do
much

but I wish
I knew for sure
that all
together

it meant
something.