Our shadows, like the evening, fall long
and lonely across the soft of new green.
I will cry myself to sleep again tonight,
wake up in the dark of morning to throw
your heavy left hard across my chest.
A man’s gloves are his own, yes; I know.
So I will fight my own fight,
and not ask you to understand. The sun
shines even as it daily dies, but the blossoms
I passed under not a week ago
already brown and fall. What if love
is not a sun but a blossom, and all
the moment we have, this? Will you
still walk alone? Will your strength be enough?
in the kitchen, the hyacinth
finally begins to open, its fragrance
still subtle & not enough
to cover the bitter almond
april stain. we are eight days in,
now, & you go better without
me every hour. I don’t know
if the herons will come back;
I should have remembered how it felt
to sleep beside you unwanted.
this is the second poem this morning;
it goes well with burnt espresso.
every hour there is less of me
to love, but at least it is my choosing.