The remembering happens at night.
The terrain of my old bedroom,
the piles of books and shoes,
as fixed in my eyes as a mural.
Climb a little closer, baby;
break me with your pretty mouth.
Still there, the empty pints,
the windows' light-block silhouettes,
the endless, earnest silence.
Still there, the rage at nothing lingers.
I love with my body, my hands,
so now I forget with my hands, my fingers;
my explanations of purpose collapse;
my cup is never full.
For now, while I can, I seize the friendly dark
and remember in dashes and flutters
how I'd loved you:
wordlessly, to the same songs
through this great hell of
ever a man of a moment,
ever letting go.