Your name was the one I etched into the frosted glass of my dad’s F150
The day after the first Christmas you didn’t come home.

Your blood was the hot coffee I poured into my cup at 3 am
While I wrote essays about how you wrote Anna Karenina
In your previous life.

Your voice was the ghost that haunted my room as a little girl
Nine years before I met you.

You were every one of the five people I’ve slept with besides you.
You were the pink champagne I spilt on my white dress
The first time I got drunk alone.

You are my 11 p.m. dreams
And my morning showers,
And the blue-eyed strangers I make eye contact with in between.

You are the garden I’ll die in,
Or the car I’ll crash in,
Or the ghost I’ll follow into Eden.

The last time you slept in your own bed,
I was the blanket beside you
And the pillow that tasted your last breath.

When l reach for you on the left side of my bed,
you aren’t there.

You are the yellow roses I leave on your grave.
You are not dead. You live inside me.