You are my favorite room to cry in
and I see your face in every “If Found,
Please Return” sign I pass.
This one’s for you.
I draft up posters that say
I lost a boy, you know the type, the one
with the eyes like two-way mirrors
that you can see
into but not through,

the one with salsa music in
his bloodstream,
the one with the arms always wrapped around
someone who is not me.
Sometimes I close my eyes and I sing
you the song about how the world
never stops turning
while you dance four hundred miles
away pressed against
the meter of another heart.

A different beat.
I’d send you an invitation to my party
but I think your address has changed
and I’m too afraid to ask.
I ask our friends instead.

I have forgotten how to write you poems
that do not read like eulogies
to something long dead.