I didn't come here to cry,
but you're in every crack on this street
making it harder then before.
We invented the winter
to fill my mouth with clouds
and watch trees sprout from bare branches.
I have a book full of poems,
34 about you;
empty words of a cluttered mind.
Everything worth saying
is trapped on the corners of your lips
below the sun of east Portugal
by the bay that burned your feet.
I watched a moth land on your eye lid;
you hardly even flinched.
The sewing machine in the sky
that held us close can't click forever,
neither can the clock on the mantle
and I fear we are running out of time to say
I'm sorry
and take back each rock we threw
before we forget each others faces.
Remember
the things we smoked,
and the love we made one Tuesday.
The feelings we shared as coldly
as the hands we never grasped.
You slid my bones from cellophane skin,
and threw them back to the shore,
just please give me back to Ohio
when October knocks on the brick between my veins.
Remember my eyes?
You took them on your back when you left,
and haven't seen them since.
I want to press  my cheek against your chest,
feel you breathing like so many times before.
If I could have one wish
I would run as far as it took to look into your eyes
just one last time,
and hope to god you notice.