I’m Gone, But You’re Here

I’m gone, but you’re here,
lifting with your legs this
cooler of organs
sewn into place.
This river that has no start.
Because that’s what you are:
what I was once, too.
A crew waist-deep
in a gutted street.
A house with an open wall.
A wind hot and still, then zoom.
A blanket on a bed
in an upstairs room.
That, and the darkness, too
when you turn your gaze
from the beautiful days.

You’re here, but I’m gone.
I wish to be remembered
but can’t feel it,
to be loved but can’t love,
to be known as night is,
chin raised to the cold.
I want the impossible:
a kiss for every star.
To mostly be
where you are.
The skin, the skin;
our kindred fingers and palms:
how they wandered
around their homes,
reaching towards the bones
that built us, speaking our
Maker’s name.

Your name, your name.
My tongue can’t hold it anymore.
Say it for me.
Shall I say “please”?
No need? Then please.

Say it again.

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