It doesn’t matter how late I wake now
it always feels like mourning
and the bedside table is afraid to ask where you’ve gone
How can I tell the orange loveseat
that you will never return,
the wounded heroine,
to rest your bike against his arms
and fall into mine?
And the bed is always waiting
the bed is always too clean
and when I am in it
I am only fishing for sleep without bait
and I am never enough to make it forget
the thick smile that was the curve of your hip
the depressions that were your trembling knees and elbows
the warm damp blossoms that used to paint the sheets
the salt-stained pillows, fossilized evidence of a crying I never understood
We all thought you were coming back
as soon as he went away
but on the day before he left
you told me at eleven
that you would be his at three
and by one I was fetal in the grass
outside your mother’s house
and the only time I wanted it,
this fucking town wouldn’t rain on me
Go to him
go to him, I’ll be fine
but my green couch refuses to talk to me
just stares out the sliding glass door
where you,
sweet woman,
used to appear
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