At the dusk of spring
I held your hand for a thousand broken promises’ worth of moments.
I am left with a perpetual sting on the places your electric fingers once burned my skin.
The moss in your retinas cracks open my windows,
Allowing the sunlight of your skin to pour over me like a blanket in November, holding me like molecules of oxygen.
There’s a place they call “home,”
I was taught that this place is a nostalgic backyard,
A stucco house with a sheltering roof,
Although in time I learned that “home” can be inside of another person.
“Home” can be a pair of arms, a familiar scent, a poison tongue.
There is a moment in time they call “forever,”
And with each passing minute I am hoping you’ll have mine.
it’s been four years and i haven’t
written a single poem, my boyfriend
asks if this is how i’ve always been,
he describes me as a wildfire, i
laugh and wear lipstick and buy
expensive perfumes and drink
champagne and let electricity spill
from my wrists like oil, i vacuum
two, three - sometimes four times
a day, my therapist says that’s not
a healthy way of dealing with loss
but i tell him that neither are pills,
sometimes he ask me about you,
i say you tasted like the sun and
touched me like i was the moon, it’s
all very sad, you know? the entire
dying part? it’s all very sad, i say,
some days i don’t want to get up,
on Sundays i watch the clock, i cook
potatoes and steak for dinner, he tells
me he likes my dresses and my pink
lipstick and especially when i read
him poetry, i don’t feel guilty when
he think they’re about him, i do feel
guilty that they’re always about you