saint of a ship in a bottle.

"who does that?" i asked, broken by the drama and simultaneous insignificance of the afternoon.

and you were quiet, still holding that butter knife, standing under the buzzing of halogens.

we'd both been outed, told, and returned to our places. yet, we stood in the middle of that lobby, just the two of us.

i wandered around in my head, searching for any good reason to kill yourself with a butter knife and coming up with a little less than nothing.

squeals from other high schoolers echoed down the hallway, and you grabbed my elbow, leading me outside.

i lit a cigarette, ripe age of sixteen.

i lit one for you, too, mr. ship in a bottle. do you remember what came next? cause i haven't seen you since the winter of 99.

we sat on those concrete benches, and i still have the plain military jacket i was wearing that day. it's in a box downstairs with it's nice wide pockets and second lieutenant bars and a receipt from a diner in kenmore square, circa 2000.

i was facing west, and the sun was in my eyes. we mirrored each other, indian style on concrete.

"why do you still have that? give that here," and i softly took the malintended butter knife from your grip.

"i didn't know what else to do," and the tears took their cue, upstaging the knife and everything you'd been through before.

"you're ok," i put my hands up to your face, "you're ok."

"you're all i've got left, and i thought ... i didn't think you'd want to be with me after ..."

"shhh, i know you told him," i ran my finger over the dull blade, "and i can't say that i'm not disappointed. but, dear, this?" and i held up the butter knife.

"god, it's melodramatic," and you, finally, cracked a smile.

"no, it's a butter knife," and i got the laugh i wanted, "but what's really wrong? this can't be about the secret. we both know you can't keep your mouth shut."

you took each of my hands, turned them palms up and ran your fingertips over my nails, "i'm falling in love with you."

"good," and i kissed you full.

all of those delicate pieces, with tweezers and a magnifying glass. all those endless nights under a bright bulb and the sweat of meticulous placement. it all fell into place.

years later, neither of us even cared enough to be there when the bottle finally cracked, your ship scattered all over my tile floor.