You spread yourself across me,
breath like yesterday's wine,
telling stories of Vancouver and Australia,
far-flung places where your happiness broke open,
spilling out onto the bent dashboards of rental cars
and shiny bed frames like this one,
and said: Good morning.
I could smell the earth on you,
the soft red clay from your
long walk through the Utah desert,
which collected at the edges of your body,
places not covered in technological fabrics
that ripped just the same as any other.
Ankles, wrists, the neck.
The lesson I learned from you is:Not every love is like another, and
Not every message gets returned.