It’s noon where you are, and I wake
squinting. My clock says
it’s
early to be alone.
The morning is still soft-edged, like it was
the time we stayed
awake until dawn—
you in my slippers and a t-shirt that billowed
like a gown. We watched Vertigo for the 26th time,
as if Hitchcock could teach us not to fall.
But we did fall, into each other
and slept, past the
nightingale’s
accusations and the grinding whine
of trash
compression against the dawn.
Now the grumble of my empty stomach
is a revelation about the
body.
That I am here, that we are two bodies
apart. The grey shirt
you gave me
hangs off my diminished shoulders.
Our distance is flaking
me apart.