I woke with your laughter pounding in my eyes.
It was as if I had swallowed a grapefruit whole
and my breaths were determined to defeat each other.
Your name never did sit right on my tongue.
Your tongue, however, is another story.
I miss you with five of these useless senses
and I find myself dancing around your shadow
in dust you kicked up when you spoke our confession:
This is not meant to be.
How many of those fifteen hundred moons
did you look up to with longing?
How many stars witnessed our passion,
and on which of them did you wish to be free?
I can't look at you without tasting envy
of whoever will one day be home for your skin.
It is coating my tongue,
filling the awkward places where your name used to be.