How can young bones have old blues
when they do not keep strands of their dead wife’s hair
in a kitchen cabinet, too lone to rot or grey.

The sun moves not at inches, but in miles when it sets
and that is how I feel every time I am left.

My fingers creak when he touches me.

He trusts my heart enough to sleep on my chest
breathes onto the origin of my breath –
I do not dare move a centimeter, forgo our bodies’ sync.
I do not trust that any minute stays existent.

I met him with old scars
have been given young ones on the heel of love.

Mostly, the blemishes appear like a blush
which is only just blood settling in and surfacing by a
titanic of skin.

I think of a young person twirling their hair
around everything, pencils and fabric and water bottles
that both new and old lovers will
touch and believe they got the closest to her scalp.

My insides are silver, his are as
gold as the trail the sun leaves to remember dawn.

The only silly part is his asking for more air, I want to
say that he is alive and because he is alive
he has plenty of air
(but I would gladly offer the remnants of mine).