From my new collection, Schematics and Assemblies of the Cosmic Heart.
After wine, after friends,
in your room pushing back
bedtime forever. You strummed
songs on your guitar, songs you had written
in England, Spain, Greece, Mexico.
I read you my poems.
You fell asleep, darkness.
I stayed awake as the last bits
of beauty smoldered and went out.
I stayed awake all night
and the darkness filled with all
the joys and sadness of my life, all here,
now, in your room, the smell of rose water
lingering on the ragged edge
of time, of our time.
I stayed awake until dawn began
and your body began
to move:
“Open the curtains,” you said.
“Make the room bright.”
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