Close.
The tea steeps
as you begin to step
from wet concrete
through the rust
screen door.
I’ve been skulking
around my skull
and bare cupboards
shelves.
I know I misplaced
our place,
its here somewhere
dusty.
You stand there,
damp denim, penetrating
my focus –
wet.
Wax trail slugs
slide down
hitting bare wood
gentle but as forceful
as a slug
to the jaw.
The moth dyed
the goo with wings
and scales
and fear when it
died.
                                                                                                                                              "Why are you here?
                                                                                                                                                        I’m not ready!
                                                                                                                                                                  Not yet!
                                                                                                                                                            Please stay!
                                                                                                                                                          One minute!
                                                                                                                                                                     Stay!"
So, that’s where it went.
You stole it back
behind broken ribs,
those wounds
when we fell
back.
The tea is black.
I walk till I’m so close
enough that you could close
your arms, pull me in close,
but you don’t, you pull
you’re salt-crusted heart
close.