We are leaving in the morning.

I can feel the press of memory
in the curve of a downward
fold, behind a torn up receipt just
next to the jut of new
roller handles. I feel it

in the coconut drink the park
cafeteria ran out of this afternoon.
The açai you thought I wouldn’t like.
How many unfinished days
are there left scratched into places
tipping over the ends of old maps?

You hand me a snack box (for tomorrow);
tell me to go to bed.
I am afraid Today will spill out
through my yawning–
from my head to the pillow
until there is nothing left, only

our Unfinished set aside for tomorrow
and all the packing we have left to do.

Now and again, I
think about our goodbyes
and am glad.
They were set to the tune
of deep gratitude and
tearful laughter,
and the strong promise
of once again.

I have nothing left to feed the phone lines.
No tiny crumbs of conversation for us
to flick back and forth across the table.
The silence pulses, heavy, over dinner;
it lingers in your nostrils and lunges
down into your chest.
I am the white handkerchief you pinned
to the clothesline: whipping in the wind
in a wave hello, or help, or surrender.
(I am not used to how weightless this feels.)
It rained all over my fresh laundry this afternoon
and there are no more sounds left to swim.

When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
Sometimes the things she says are kind:
a balm at the end of a long day
of being grown-up and efficient and all together.

Sometimes the night says,
"You can put the mask down now."
Sometimes bravery is just
sitting in the silence
and letting your own thoughts
run freely into the space.

Other times, she tells you things you need to hear,
whether or not they are easy to swallow.
And that's okay too.
One of the best things about night
is the space: there is more than enough space
to catch all the truth, clamoring for your attention
to arrange all your captive thoughts in neat little lines
here on the wall of your room.
You turn them over now in your fingers,
examine all their sides--the good and the ugly.

What could you have done differently?
How can you do better when the dawn comes?

I used to say that everything looks better
in the morning light.
I used to say, "Let's wait until
the sun comes back up. Then maybe
none of these things will
bruise us as much."

But I think now, midnight and dawn are
two sides of the same coin.
Where the morning sweeps you up in a rush,
the night pulls at your shoes and glues you to the floor.
She says, "Wait."
She says, "Listen."
"Here are all the important things you missed today. You will need them for tomorrow."

When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
She gives you space. She gives you truth.

And the morning? Well—the morning—She sings.
I suppose this is why things look different
during both times of the day.
One is pinpoint clarity,
and the other—the hope that follows
the mercies we need
embedded in gentle sunlight.

Both.
Both are good.