Swinging between them both, their big hands engulfing
my pudgy little ones.
underneath the rainbow tunnel, holding
she is still radiant. not radiant still.
of paper, removing the bow, flinging
off the box top—I robbed
Here’s where to palpate the point
Of maximal impulse, a space two fingers by one finger wide:
It pulses at the fifth intercostal space,
At the midclavicular line to the left of the sternum.
It’s not so bad. At night, sleeping in this space,
Indentations of you long gone. The wall is further away,
I don’t cry into paint anymore. It’s funny how loneliness works,
How my eyes open against dark is less scary since you’ve left.
burning inside of me, it’s been
a long time coming. smoldering never felt
this good, throbbing fire veins glowing, heat coursing
through the body—a thumb stroked metal,
It’s when lines overhead begin to blur—
Sharp angles and sloping arches of an old library
Trying to look older, stained glass unintelligible, only
Black space, silver metal cutting night—