You left
For England
Saturday
An it was raining when you left
An when you got back
It rained still.

And you were gone
For one week
Seven days.
Which is five school days
For me to squeeze through geometry
without you
(And
I
Can
Barely
Survive
With
You)

And Sarah asked
For a Union Jack
T-shirt
And told you
Not to forget.

And you brought it
For her
And
Got
Nothing
For
Me

But you told me
"You didn't ask
But if you want something
I'll get it for you
Next time.
I have to go back in
Six to eight weeks"

And I thought
You would have
Bought me something
Not as a
Souvenir
But
As
An
Apology

For leaving my alone
For a week
To live lonely

And yet
You'll go back
To England across the pond
In
Six
To
Eight
Weeks

Sometimes I doubt you're actually going to England.

Sometimes I forget I have a father.

This is about the breath on your tongue
and the way you looked in my basement
when the world was asleep and my
fingers were wet;
because I can still smell you after
4 a.m. on a Friday night, thinking —
(****, this feeling burns like
a cigarette habit).
Your ******* are the epitome of thunder,
they creep into my skin and leave
me vibrating.

You are restless in between my legs
so I pretend this was easy like
the first time I told you I love you;
rub my hand through your hair as the breath
in my lungs quakes and evaporates
in between us.

It is cold and I am swooning in our
sweat and tears from earlier testimonies,
(I know you care, I saw it in
the way you arched your vertebrae)
and you whimper in your sleep —
waking your bones, your still-life perfection.
I could stay in this mess forever.