Love to write

When, in The
morning, your eyes appear as an Apparition
above my bed, I am not afraid. I do not think Of
your hands or the weight These
thoughts hold. Faces
do not have to be our defining feature. In
spring once, you told me The

Last summer I spilled coffee on my favorite pair of jeans
so I cut a hole the shape of a star
and now only wear them to bed.

Often I wake in the morning to the sound
of a foghorn.
I am neither near an ocean or dreaming.

The soil in the bathroom sink 
smothers the water
and I don't turn off the faucet.

I want the whole house to fill 
with the emptiness of an ocean.
I want the whole house to smell my hurt.