i, lonely, sit in empty rooms
a lost cause to convince
for i am just a ghost, here,
and you do not exist

and i can float, my sheet, my gloves,
you clack and clink beside -
a pair of simultaneously
silent, noisy guys

i sit under the showerhead
so viciously aware
that I've been writing poems to
a quiet gust of air

the man to which i rhyme to,
to which my life i owe,
my love in life, my groom in death,
my garrett jacob bones.