Your tears on my shoulder sleeve, your footsteps
pacing in the kitchen where I know
you’re making a cheese sandwich underneath
the refrigerator light, and cussing to yourself
because you forgot to buy mayonnaise at the store.
Your makeup, your purse, the thousand receipts
in your glove compartment where I know
you stash a carton of Marlboro cigarettes
to indulge yourself in during afternoon traffic,
while blaring James Blunt from an old acrylic CD.
Your mornings, your coffee creamer, your head.
Please, come back to bed.

I’ve watched you balance jelly beans with boulders,
gorgeous dresses with your sweats, and your idea of love
with everything your mother has ever said. I know,
by the way you tense your arms around my rib cage
or how your toes curl against my shin, that your nightmares
are only apparitions of childlike separation. Your fears

clarify moments like this, my hand tucking hair behind your ear
while kisses trail your collarbone like a dotted line
you dare not sign. You see a reflection of damage in my eyes.
Your bags, your memory, the rain that gathers in speckles
on your windshield every day. I’ve tried to lighten
the black in your life, but things have scratched at your soul
and now it’s dead. Please, baby, come back to bed.