To all the things & people we lost in the fire
so we could learn how to dance in the rain.
Tell him I miss the places we never got to visit,
the way he couldn’t say my name out loud —
as if we needed none to understand that
I was her and he was him and we could speak
all languages without a word.
Tell him I never wanted promises, ideas of when
words should turn to worlds, or how our skin should taste,
or what our faces might have looked like, had we not
lost them in the fire.
Hungry for truth, thirsty for wonder, all I was dying for
was life — deep, full and tasty
bites of Now.
Ask him, what should I do with all these icicles
I pulled out of his eyes — or all the stories
never written on our bodies, or all these pictures
in a home I thought was ours…
Tell him I wish I’d lost someone I held,
instead of longing after all the ghosts that never
held me back.
And yet, tell him I’m better off, friends with
the night that taught me how to be
my own museum, and decorate my walls
with hope; tight with the moon that showed me
a new kind of home — not locked in chests
or lost in cages, but found in every song
And there’s a thrill to me, you know,
it’s almost like a shout, the hymn of those
who’ve learned the music without notes,
the resurrected art of laughing
in the dark.
(But, on a second thought,
don’t tell him anything.