and there are still weekend mornings
when your absence is twice as heavy
to be written on my thickest notebook sheets,

and there are still weekday mornings
when i mistake someone else’s phone call
for yours,
and that the empty space in bed
looks just like the days
when you would get up to greet the sun

and there are still mornings
when it feels like
we’re just movie-dates and serenades
away from making up
and from breaking each other’s hearts again
only to call it love

but

your name is now
someone else’s synonym
for morning coffees and unmade beds
and arrows for a wrist tattoo.

and darling, i still bleed
from the paper cuts
and the last ten poems
i wrote for you.