My shoulders have grown weary under your enormous
gravity.
Like the sick summer nights in your breath,
I have congealed on the foyer,
unable, unwilling to draw myself up.

Night falls and all the things that have been hiding in me come out,
and I feel your curving absence
and I am alone,
some place far away where the memory of your voice still echoes,
a moth against a lantern in my throat.

I feel you moving in the stillness of sleep,
in that place between dream and death
where your breath still lingers
like spiders under my skin.