Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul

i
love
you

three empty words
i want to fill

three empty words
i want to feel

Stars only reflect
the inner most desires
burning to escape.

Here is where we watched the lunar rise and you told me
Here is the moon. And there is Mars. And beyond?
Here is where we watched the stars and I pointed out
Here is Orion’s belt. And there is Ursa Major. And there is a satellite.
Here is where we scanned the pitch-black presuming I would be your satellite.
Here is the orbit that the ancients used to predict the future. But I don’t know.
Here is where I looked at you like a supernova. Bright? Wondrous? Dying.
Here is where I awoke to realise my feet were soaked because the moon was so high up.
Here is where I turned to see your face, pale, eclipsed by your wig.
Here is where I look back to see one set of footprints and another set of tire-tracks.
Here is where I can always swing back in an orbit to find you again.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

Our love was like a fruit
Started of so sweet and so soft
But as it aged, it rotted and died
Leaving only a sour taste in my mouth