One day I will show you
the dirt beneath my nails
and you’ll know
not only of the things
I’ve buried and the graves
I’ve dug, but of the weeds
picked and the flowers
When inspiration does not come to me, I go halfway to meet it.
and hear me in your coffee.
I am a silent morning.
You are a lover in mourning, but wake up
and remember that there is always
a somewhere else,
that I am always in it, and that the fear of death itself
is not a companion. It is a bruised fist.
Remember that somewhere
are my hips
and the ridges of your skin colliding,
the friction of forgetting, the hiding,
the late nights lying in bed, the trying
Wake up, and there will be someone new on your lips
and I will be ringing a doorbell behind your eyes,
trying not to cry when I remember
waking up without you.