I want a lot of things, like shirts of him.
A drape of cotton haze, a bandage for
the nights you spend beneath blue sheets, a swim  
instead asleep. A shred of what’s no more.  

I want my life to be a movie scene.
We drive across the Golden Gate, the bright
and trembling lights like camera’s flash. You lean
against the window, saying you’re alright.

But nothing’s ever good or great or fine.
The shirt is not the same as him. The car
is short a person that’s cuddling coffins in wine
Imbibing soil. I’m saving scabs from scar.

I want another look in electric eyes
and pain to have no place in last goodbyes .