Look, if you leave me tomorrow,
I will first go
to your side of the bed and
lie there.
I  will fit my body into the shape of yours
whose frail form has already been imprinted in the thin mattress.
I will place my palm where yours once was and I will memorize every rise and
every fall of your body
every curve
every straight line
every aching vertebrae that you never complained of
every stitch you never told me about
because you are stronger than anyone I know.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will throw open your dusty cabinet doors
bury my face in your clothes
and I will smell your smell.
What is your smell?
I will smell you and pretend that
I'm burying my face
in you

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will die.
I will die.
I will die.
Maybe not all of me,
but a chunk that's half times two of me, that's for sure.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will run out of the house
and visit that pile of debris overlooking the sickening city
my sanctuary
after you
and I will ache.
I will ache.

If you leave me tomorrow,
I will grab my pen
and write down everything about you
from the way your hair falls to the way you never, ever said
"I love you."
and that's okay because I will write about the way
you loved me with your fingers
with your slanted eyes
with your lifted brow
I will write because I am scared that I will forget
the little things that make you you.
your precision
your perfectionist ways
your scientific mind
your slow, strong stride
the way you tap the jar when the coffee's almost gone
because you hate wasting things and
I will remember that and hate the way
I am wasting.
I will create another you in my mind
one that
won't
leave me tomorrow.

I swear, if you leave me tomorrow, I'll...

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.