Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head? And does he sing to you incessantly from the space between your bed and wall? Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you? Oh, does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched? And does he cry through broken sentences, like “I love you far too much!”
Does he lay awake listening to your breath? Worry that you smoke too many cigarettes? Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor? For every speck of tile, there’s a thousand more you won’t ever see, but must hold inside yourself eternally.
Well, I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death. In every city, memories would whisper, “Here is where you rest.” I was determined in Chicago, but I dug my teeth into my knees, and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine,
“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.”
I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her. She had eyes bright enough to burn me; they reminded me of yours. In a story told, she was a little girl, in a red-rouge sun-bruised field, and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed, and it rose like thunder clapped under our hands, and it stretched for centuries to a diary entry’s end where I wrote,
“You make me happy! Oh, when skies are gray.”
Well, the clock’s heart, it hangs inside its open chest with hands stretched toward the calendar hanging itself, but I will not weep for those dying days. For all the ones who’ve left, there’s a few that stayed,and they found me here, and pulled me from the grass where I was laid.