She, Above Time
—
07:00
I look up to the morning sky
where watercolors emblazon you
into my mind;
the moon’s last exhale carries your perfume.
I see the curve of your brow in the fire of
cloud tops, your lips in the sun’s welcome.
11:02
Clouds gather.
I miss the days we didn’t share,
the way you didn’t run your fingers
along the side of my face just before
each kiss.
14:17
Freshwater tears
seek my shoulders. The saints weep
since I can’t.
Do the days know how you feel?
Can they sense each thought that you
don’t have of me?
The words you once wrote
bleed into a gray afternoon blanket,
your faceless lover entwined between
your legs as he looks through you and forgets
the corner of your soul
that you reserved for him.
You dream of the gold- and silver-bow kisses
he will give;
he dreams of lace
slipping from the edge of the bed.
15:58
A dull brightness
forgets the straightened hair and liquid eyeliner,
screams at the fatigued, the lonely, the one who wishes
you didn’t stiffen when you sat next to him.
I want to find ice on the ground,
something to convince me that the
longer and longer spaces between heartbeats
come from outside, anything to preserve
hope, to keep it
from growing necrotic.
18:03
My sky is fluorescent.
“You know those cartoons
where the guy throws his coat over the puddle
for the girl to walk over?
You’re the guy who does that,
then carries her over,
and your coat gets wet anyway.”
But my dear, we never got
to the puddle in the first place.
21:10
The sky is nothing.
Evening flames try to cauterize your absence,
but they can’t.
Sailor’s serenades ride the starlight,
coax me toward the sea — visions
of gold-rimmed cuffs and days where I
might not need to hold my breath and close my eyes
just before I say your name.
23:56
The lullaby of a crypt
falls through my windows. I
don’t bother to look up. Shadows glare
at the sound of tires in the distance. I stare
into my phone’s emptiness, praying
that your words will suddenly bring light.
I promise myself, I will wait.
00:00