he keeps me scattered
about the room
lacking a right angle

denied a proper burial
beside the ghost of a cherry tree

lost amidst
dusty poems
broken drums
unread books
ink sketches
and clementine crates

he never liked letting me go
not even from the bed
but his embrace
made for a happy cloister

i recall a breathable autumn day
a few months before we died

before i bled fuchsia nail polish
into the bathroom tile
horrifying the shower curtain fish

walking past the oil lamp specters of guernica silently
wearing my his place robe
hair wrapped in a terry cloth turban

he spoke softly into his black coffee
when he felt me moving toward him

“i decidedly like calling into the next room for you more”

in that moment we loved each other perfectly