The kiss of you is tucked inside my closet.
A dark bag stretched thick with clothes,
most of them blue, and spilling over everywhere.
We used to have this fight and it would go
something like this. I wanted, and you wanted,
and in the end we both would lose.
I remember, still, you putting an envelope bloated
with twenty dollar bills under my door,
annotated for driving lessons.
And I remember the sudden change of heart
that sent us shopping instead—sometimes we could both win.
I find you everywhere. Your cells.
You were a city unto yourself, a scrolling ticker tape of motion
and dreams that pressed itself, unfurled,
against my walls until, spilling over, I was no less
a part of you than your lingering scent bubbles,
your scrawled notes and photographs, dog eared,
I find tucked everywhere, even beneath the sheets.
You were a masterpiece expanded, spread out
like the waters that took you as their own and left you
more than I could bear to see, to breathe, to know.
It is my turn, now, to dress you.
26 Dec 1956 - 3 Jan 2012