There are mornings where there is a quiet
Crease on your side of the bed
You got up early and are drinking coffee
With last night’s sleep still on your teeth
You sit at the computer as though you’re paused—
There’s your flannel jacket, stiff against your skin
Holding you together like a bullet casing
Your brown hair was the explosion and the silent
aftermath is the flattened curls that itch you
It’s on these mornings that you feel you’d be better
suited standing on the frontlines of a war
Where common courtesy is an unmarked grave
No one visits.
Dying for something in which you vehemently believe
You’d carefully place your faith in that bottle with tweezers
The ship that’s anchored, that by going nowhere
means that it has already seen the world and sewed it shut.
I could walk for miles in our house and still not find you
You’re in the cupboards and beneath the floorboards but
You’re peeling away like wallpaper. You’re the tree who feels nothing
When I tear away your bark
When you’re in pause, I have to watch you
Hide the sharp objects, tiptoe to the kitchen,
Make my world scarce — distant land from your boat
Two desolate specs; neither can move.
I may have said something all wrong last night.
Did you know that words don’t go away?
The sound waves just get further and further apart over time
One day someone may be able to listen to the conversation we had
To slice through atoms which tenderly house each utterance
Protecting them from the bubble bursters, the people who say
forgive and forget
There’s a point to all of this, and I am sure if you were here
You’d want me to get to it quicker.
But we’re going to need your boat to get there.