What is lost?
When everything that is here are the pieces.
You define lost with the dirty dishes in the sink,
the boots & worn clothes splayed on the floor.
The half eaten food in the fridge.
The leftovers tears you are still tasting today.
The sun is a reminder that the night keeps leaving
& while you chase down the fact
that you may never love again,
You exhale the smoke through the hole of your teeth
& there is everything to forget
like late morning breath & toast
& how sticky we felt.
How eyes often replaced words & how moans
ached through fingers & bended knees.
And then, the neck,
how easily it makes the nerves break into seizures.
How many times have the shivers
felt like a proposal of forever?
How many times have I follow the moon
to the ocean of your limbs?
How many times have I sailed
on the springs,
Clutched the headboard
of this ship & thought that if I made
out to land with this bliss,
then dying together would be worth
a little lie, a little indiscretion, a little imperfection
It would be worth poverty & these south Bronx streets.
It would be worth my own toil.
Your drinking & Newport problem.
The two children after our own.
I look around the repainted walls.
The candle dimming, the pictures of my fathers before me.
I look at the mess of my own neglect.
The baby playing with barbies in the living room.
The eye of the TV watching her.
There is no one inside of me.
No illumination rising
Just a clouded belly
A storm with your name on my chest.