Warmth in air reminds me
Of your fingers bruising down the
Braille of my spine, when you trapped
my wrist,
Held my fingers hard against
your pulse, sometimes I wake up and hear
the sound of it in my ears.
There are things I can leave behind, like
Long winters and cracked lips and
this broken umbrella
That leaves me drenched every damn time
it rains,
But not you.

I think of all the places I have scattered
The dreams that I used to have
Dandelions and stars and blown-out candles,
Pennies, eyelashes, fountains and
Gutters,
Wonder if I am too old now to ask for
them back,
Too empty of that thing that a person must have to make
A wish and really mean it.

I used to think that if I loved you enough white sheets
Would become white again,
That all rivers would lead to the ocean
and that
trains would run on time, but I have
found myself
waiting on a lot of trains