On the last day


For Tara

We sat, naked on my bed
and smoked my last two cigarettes:
The ship captain and
the Queen of France
on a raft made
of loose change and pocket lint.
You breathed the clouds out
of the rising sun’s view as I
whispered cardinal calls with
my lips pressed against your neck.
“Cling tight to the window, darling!”
I shouted, in my most hushed tone
“Morning’s ahoy”
And you laughed in the sunrise
as the light splashed through the window
so holy
I could have sworn
your voice was church bells on Sunday.
Noon struck us
like lightning molasses
too sudden
for all its slow sweetness
Only hunger
chased us, eventually, out of bed
you waltzing, and me
still tripping on my morning
baby doe legs
The sunlight
too bright for either of us
but still beautiful.

When our brief tour of
my neighborhood came to it’s
local sandwich shop conclusion
I surveyed the streets we had
just stumbled through
and promised myself to someday
promise you
all of it.

I built you a house
in my head, that day
Gigantic, at first
Then, slowly shrinking inwards
until it was the size of a room
anchored to a meadow by
a window with
no blinds. Close,
but not too close
to a sandwich shop
where we could eat breakfast
and childishly smile
at each other, each morning.

The house
the size of a bed now. Just big enough
that I could hold you and
watch your eyes herald in the morning
and mark each day holy
with your smile.

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