It was the first poem I read,
Really read,
After flipping through it.
I sat on the corner of your bed
In the light from the hallway
In your room now empty of you
And lonely
Because now it was just a room
And less you.
You are this orange blanket,
You are your red sweater,
You are your tabby cat beard
That runs along my spine in tickles
When your room turns watery green in the morning
As if we lived under a lake.
You are those quick slanted grey blue eyes
That dart,
Slower than your mind,
Slower than your mouth,
With its handful of honest words.
That squint of appreciation as I peer over
the smooth shoulder of some girl.
That cried for me once or twice.
And I made my hands wet from wiping your face.
And I understood what the man said
when he wrote
"This isn't the whole story.
The fact is, I was still in love."
Because I know what it is to have the world be too loud.
I know that sometimes when you hold me my skin feels flayed
And I know there is something about light and what it does to us.
"But a body wishes to be held
& held and what can you do
about that?"
"My only advice is not to go away.
Or, go away.
most of my decisions have been wrong."
But a body wants to be held and held,
A heart needs to be loved,
And what can one do about that.
