On Trial

I collect every manifestation
of your regard
almost obsessively, hoarding
the evidence, making my love

a crime scene.

There's where the first blood was spilled:
an inside joke was born and you would give me
that secret smile.
I pocketed your hesitancy to end our meetings
as if those inner pangs were palmed notes,
thinking "Does he?"

I stretched yellow tape around
every flicker of your eyes,
every fond movement of your brow—
I guarded my memories against contamination

and hoped against hope
that I could prove this to you.

Witnesses abound.
They make our story difficult
with their contradictory theories.
I pace our scenes, replay conversations,
lay out our timeline.
The longer we let what we know lay
unattended in the weeds
the more obscure this will become;

stand up and speak.