There are days when the sun
speaks through windows
speaks through anchors,
cast through windows,
of light. Soft, elegant,
swirling entities,
to claim your picture frames,
to claim your clothes,
to claim your keys,
your shoes, your change, your favorite chair, your favorite cup,
stagnant dregs of your spit
on the rim.

Yeah, there are some days when I wake up
and your smell on the sheets
burns my nose,
creeps into my eyes,
razor wire finger tips
split my pupils, wide.

There are some mornings when the hard
lasts longer than the time
I’ve got to give,
and there are others
when I’ve got the world to explode,
yet no one to show.

And there are nights when I dig
deep into those same sheets,
and I look,
for you, for me, for that smell, for us,
the smells of us,
those that set us free, and full,
from hunger, thirst, lust, death,
life.

There are nights when I stare outside,
the porch light brimming with beetles
and moths and gnats and flies and sometimes
the occasional *****.
Some days are just like that, I guess.
The T.V. hasn’t been turned on
since you left.
but a lot of other things have.