I remember writing down how annoyed I was
by our monday-wednesday morning ritual, how
cyclic, everyday a replay of the one before,
after awhile, awhile of anything, you want more
i wanted more, else.
It's half a year later and now I live in a darkness
of you, in the back of your closet with your grandfather's things,
pressed into your old biology notes, wedged
between the numbers in your algebra book (somewhere
on the shelf or other).
Where you should be, instead is a pale space, torn
out nails bloody on the floor; how I loved
cutting you open, peeling back the skin, all
your excuses for hiding. Your sacred flesh glowing
soft lights, rosy, spring mornings, gentle
fur on purring things.
But you belong to them now.
I can't remember not having you for everyday;
you were glory-sprinkled sunshine glinting off screens
on one-something afternoons, pointing out strangers and
smiling all of a sudden at something long-since forgotten
or else quietly acknowledged, information imparted
through days spent together
you were a scent across rooms, invading lungs and
shirt surfaces and my moldable memory, so all my thoughts
of you are water-scented.
you were navy blue fluorescent.
You were mine,
secrets included, intended, (especially);
you were the whispers I never passed on,
the gasps I kept gasping for days,
given in faith, guarded in fidelity.
(what i would give to have us waste our mornings
looking for each other again)
