I wake up alone, and
it isn’t new, but
it is earth shattering
every time.
The bed is always cold on that side,
cold enough it tries to pull the heat from me.
You’re somewhere far, and
I haven’t been able to reach you.
It isn’t new, but
it is earth shattering
every time.
There’s an echo in the phone line,
the land line I keep —
the land line of yours that I keep.
I had to get a new phone.
I had to get three new phones.
I have stopped crushing them
when they are wrong numbers,
spam callers,
robots asking for me.
The last one I had to replace
because it asked for you.
I thought maybe it meant I was closer.
I thought maybe it meant you were closer.
It’s getting colder now, and
the fire escape has had
the first eyelashes of frost on it,
the chipped paint and
rust shivered with
fractals of ice whispers.
I slept out on it the night before, and
woke a little before dawn,
to climb up to the roof and
lay out on the tiles and
stare up and
up and
up, and
let the tears come.
They aren’t new.
I’ve lost the flow of it, I think, and
I’ll have to start
again.