Is it cliché to say that I dream of you
or that I stay up in bed thinking of you?
Indeed an apple falls far from a tree
and into a basket, somewhere overseas.
My Adam’s apple breaking over the phone
and chutzpah china slamming on the floor
leaves few words to remember you by.
My blinds will never carry a scent
yours, too much of a burden to bear.
A wooden bed with walls and moist soil
the only smell I pine for now
the only thing I can pray for now.