There is classical music shaking dust from the ceiling tiles above
my bed warmed like a waffle iron, sheets lay in a disarray of the Rocky mountains
each crevice as hot as the bottom of my feet while standing on the sand of a beach
small summer shells tucked away in the top of my bikini
and you left to wait at your keyboard. Leave my head please.
I tried so desperately to write a poem without you hiding in each letter,
every word telling those hurting who hurt me before that it will get better.
I'm not lying to them, although I'd say it if I were. The music above me still plays
making colors swirl and bump together, standing side by side with my mother.
She called the other day, although I think I called her. Said thank you for
birthing me and raising me and feeding me and giving me a place to sleep
all in three words I haven't said before. Not in years.
I think I meant it. I wish I were sure.