365 Poems/55 I wonder if you dream of being gone

I wonder if you dream of being gone

Can you teach me how not to be afraid?

I am afraid, and I hate myself for it.


I feel like I’m shrinking, even though,

really, I know it’s you. It’s almost as if I

can visibly see your body withdrawing into itself.


Your skin is as smooth as warm glass tonight.

I imagine you and I fitting together again,

like joints of woods.


This morning, before you fell asleep,

you said not to wait for you to be gone,

that I need to go home and eat the plums

while they are still ripe. I refused, but

by then, you weren’t awake to hear me.


You were fine saying that single, solid word.

But I couldn’t, and I’m still unable to.

It’s like something I gargled with this morning,

and spat out. I’d rather fuck you to the end

than talk about it.


You haven’t finished your third re-reading

of The Return of the King. I pick it up,

move the bookmark, and start to read aloud,

to you, to the room and the nurse standing by.