151.

I am walking, footsore, back to the bed we slept in
travelling weary and wanting you like I swore I wouldn't
and you will always be the Her in my stories

and do you remember
how everything happened for us past midnight
all of our best moments wrapped in some half-haze, veiled
at 3 AM after he had stopped asking where you were
and we could cradle each other like eggshells in a feather bed

and you were always feather-soft, your edges blurred
through little crystal tears in the corners of my eyes
or maybe I just didn't want to see you
too clearly in the light of day

and we ended softly, too
no loud goodbye, just the hush of regret
and the words I whispered into your hair while you slept -

the words I laced into my fingertips, and
I still hold hands with them sometimes,
every pillow-lipped I Love You

and today I wrap them in a fist.

I have been blindfolded and foolish, thirsty for 3 AM
while I am walking away from you in circles
and coming back to you again

and do you remember
the things I showed you under the covers, my hunger
and the questions I painted black across your bedroom wall
how gently I kissed your skin and how hard I hoped
you would tell me your secrets

but we ended with a clap and a jolt
some storm inside me breaking, no clean goodbye
just the hush of a rain curtain closing you out
and drowning my broken back.

I am still waiting for our epilogue
but some midnights still fill my mouth like introductions,
like the first time we touched, our early years
your eyes and all the colors of you
and everything is thunder-swirled inside of me

so I suppose
that waking up at 3 AM will always sound like you breathing
and you will always be the Her in my stories