It’s been three months since you left,
and I’m lying on my back in the
grass, picturing your crag-
toothed slot-canyon grin, my
body pouring into the cold
empty sky and wistfully
warming some far-away world.
As the frost slinks across my
bones, I am circumcised. My well-worn voice
tears at the night, fingers scraping
across the star-bright
sky. But still you whisper in the pit of my
skull – in between shaded shivers, I bask
in the warm notes
of stolen summer.
Heartache is a somber lover.
Sometimes she leaves me on
read. We spin in
circles, holding hands,
round and round and round til
her grin haunts the back of my
eyelids and her voice echoes in
empty cabinets beneath my skin.
