NOT MUCH OF A POEM

today— only labored breathing. I have worn
this body limp, my heart a hollow cathedral.

Know this much. Today brought no spectacular
revelation. Instead, I crumpled and wailed

over how complicated the mind is, how love
cannot always suffice in navigating its mazes.

Where do I fit in your world of worlds, sweet
thing? Is there still space for my bones to rest

in all of your worry? I cannot write without
knowledge. I do not dream without security.

I must know— is there a bed still made for me?
A place set at the table? Do you still see me

there, kissing you under tomorrow’s skies?
Know this much. You haunt me in every vision—

under summer’s moon, at the end of every aisle,
smiling crooked in wildflower meadows and greasy diners.

There is no way to stop this reckless way I love you,
this wild, broken prayer, these empty hands from searching

for you in the dark. I will sleep restless with my words until
your heart calms enough to find me again. Know this much:

I will write my way toward better poems, a better you.
Maybe there we will finally sleep through the night.

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