These nights are hard to take
I press my ear to this bench, and I can
hear my heart beat as I watch
my finger trace your name
and smell the want that wanders through this room.
Tonight I will think of you, because this
resolve is killing me drop by purple
acidic drop on the rope, link by iron
link on the chain, turtle by pet
turtle in the pond south of my place
and telling the cleaners to keep my
sombrero was a bad idea.
What can I say to console myself
when this wooden bench does not feel like your skin?
It smells like shame, and its edge is as far as I can see.
You could go, I might say, you might go.
But I know I will stay.
