There was no mistaking it: The Boyfriend had grown.
At first it hardly seemed to show; you were slouching,
if that, or — just a bit, was it? — he was leaning back.
So you thought, if you thought of it at all. But
over time, neither you nor he could hide how tall
he had become — when before you were eye to eye,
now you had to tiptoe up to kiss him, and tasted
more chin than lips. All this was fine, at first,
if strange; how does a man his age, the same as yours,
transform like this, in so short a time? You both
made jokes; he learned to bend as you learned to lift
your eyes. I’ll need to buy new clothes, he said.
Soon enough The Boyfriend seemed hungrier
at dinnertime; no meal quite satisfied without him
wanting dessert or asking for more. In bed,
everything was, if anything, better than ever before:
You took in the expanse of him like a wealthy boy
in a foreign land, drank as deeply of him as any time
you had since the first. You felt like you were fucking
a new man beneath The Boyfriend’s old skin, however more
there was of it — all the thrill of an affair, with all
the abiding passion of a thing long held intact. Sometimes
you’d bend a bit, or keep your eyes cast down to see him
as all the more a giant, and yourself so very small.
In the weeks ahead there would form a sharper angle
to his chin, rigid lines upon his form where nothing
had ever been straight before. His eyes, you thought,
were turning to glass, if that was not a trick
of the light; something on his skin had started to smell
of dust, and the dampness of your lovemaking left you
covered with some kind of grime. In years to come
he would solidify — he wore like stone when left out
at all hours, but with the sound and sweep of steel.
He never did grow again, or speak: only abide.
Still you think you love whatever’s left of him.
You lie, you lie, you lie.
January 2010