that still smell like her,
but you hid the letters and called it moving on,
so when your friends ask, you tell them it is midnight,
it is always midnight, and the sun has forgotten how to spell your name.
This is how they know she has not called you.
On a rainy Tuesday in November,
Mercury is in retrograde and for a moment
the blood inside of you stands still.
The light is bearable again
and all the colors on your skin agree to stop fighting
for just a little while.
You read an article that told you not to make agreements
when the cosmos are given permission
to reach out to our bodies;
your body goes back to war,
it is once again impossible to sleep.
You miss the sky that you found in her palms.
For three months straight, you have ordered insignificant items
to be delivered to your house. Every time there is a knock on the door,
your body feels like it has come alive,
the image of her, smiling, blinds you.
She is never the one knocking.
Everyone says you are doing this to yourself.”
