(11/04)

i am sure this poem didn’t mean
to start with you, but i still have your
t-shirt and your jacket. your fingerprints
are still on the furniture and i still
don’t know how to name these poems without
thinking of your hands. i was certain your
galaxies fit mine, that you knew every inch of
my skin, that God himself spoke your name into my mouth, 
but you excused yourself from dinner one night
and stopped returning my calls.
you called me a constellation once, but
stars do not become red giants. stars don’t
swallow darkness whole and cry over silly boys.
stars don’t tear themselves out of the sky to
hold a boy who doesn’t know himself. i saw your
name on a railway on the way to work the other day. 
i wanted to take it with me, but he spelled his
name wrong. he was wrong, i cried. i smeared my mascara.
i erased it, but i am still thinking about how to call you.
you called me a constellation once
but i don’t remember how to dance; 
i don’t remember a sky without you anymore.