You disappear in June, leaving a dentin my breath. Your rosewood fragrance lingers
while I stare at empty frames. To inhalenothing is its own religion, a pale addiction
to blank walls, arms reaching aimlessly in bed.My body becomes the widow of my brain.
Moods fall like rain. Yesterday you werewater; hailstorms on my face,
cyclones on the ocean. Today you are space.Today I take my first step forward.
The step I should have taken years agoto own my fate. For grit is my grace,
a fitting intoxicant, my oxygen forgottenand not what you want in your days.
Years later you return, thin as a cry,smelling of a tangled life. Your arms full of lilies
as if I were dead. I bed your secret mouthwearing dimly scented blue. The only shade
I know of you. Afterwards, while you sleepfor days, I remove your shadow,
pin it to my wall like a salt-stained sepiaphotograph. My love, we are beautiful
storm-torn weeds, even before you leave again.
***