Inverse Ghazal

There is only you and me and the new carpet and the dusty clock hand,
there, slowly bending as the bedroom fills with laughter and late afternoon.

There is glee in this time—the hour before departure, the final song
that will stick to my skull like honey. The love lyric, the soft clang of bells.

There is, early in the morning, the black coffee I brought to wake you
from the cafe below our first apartment—which I hated but knew you adored.

There is a line the preacher says commanding punishment for people like us.
Don’t listen too closely to one sound, you’ll miss the music stacking like cutlery.

There is something sickly sweet about moving through life backwards:
falling for you before a reason why, a kiss before held hands, cream before coffee.

There is, Ali, the loss of every day that passes this complex joy of finitude.
Look at me look at you. Look: how every corner in this room points to us.