when you’re gone,
your empty bed burns

a quiet hole in the world.

i miss you in gasps
and wonder about god,

tongue an old flame
time-licked by soft light,

watching shadows pool
between the shafts.

my brain changes
shape while you sleep

elsewhere, sinking
deeper into late summer

as the air moves slowly
through. just this time last year

i think, we sat, spitting candy
ribbons on the hot pavement

(which never really
happened anyway;

but you were there,

in a flash of body, all teeth,
grinning like a child).

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