Jun 23


His head is a cavern 
I search for at night.

We hold leather and paper
and honey in our twisted hands
and open our mouths to each other  
and pretend to say 
all the things we used to long for.

The bathroom now smells like copper
and the roof leaks wine at the corners.

I want his field
and her lips
and the swimming hole at the end of the hill. 


I want the closet we used to hide in 
and the names we traced
on each other's backs
and all the years we swallowed
while drinking bitter lemonade. 

He cuts his own hair 
and admits to feeling lighter.
He buys a train ticket 
and admits to stealing
the innocent morning light. 

He does not get caught.
He does not return.

It's easy to get lost 
when you're not searching.
It's easy to leave when you think you're not wanted.