A fire is still going, and burning up the roof
ashes drifting into our hair so we grow old
together, the way we always dreamed
coughing on ruined homes and
breathing in charred rainfall.
Dilapidated cabinets with rust-scabbed
hinges, cracked glass on the other side.
Empty fridge, barely cold.
Half-open pantry with your favorites
still stocked inside, stale and
molded. Still a feast if you eat it quick.
The stairs stained with dog piss and other
unnameable messes under my naked feet
bony rail creaking under my hand, the other
stuffed in my pocket, fingers cold because it’s full of holes.
I push open your door, pressing hard because the
other side is strewn with singed jackets and broken
picture coffins and half-torn smiles. Rumpled
green sheets with unutterable emptiness.
I breathe the moment you threw me down,
one shoe on, crumpled lashes, bra strap
hanging off my shoulder and asked me to stay.
I’m there on the carpet, taking off my
shoe and saying “okay”.
I think somewhere my phone is ringing. On the
bathroom counter, shivering on the marble
smeared with toothpaste and scum.
Blue October ringtone, the one you set
one morning when I wasn’t looking.
Is that you calling? You always said
it was always me.
I curl into your shadows and live a hundred days.
The ashes settle into my lungs.
Slowly the roof burns.