we have come to the end of questions,
grown, ripping sheets,
growing taller and no space.
bone on bone,
god on god,
where do I begin and you end?

here, everything is full yet
hollow and your voice echoes
in what I wish it wouldn’t
and doesn’t in what I wish it would.

is this loss? because even if I
had the clothes I wore on that
first night, unwashed, I would
still wash them. I want for my
things to smell like my things
again.

it’s almost november now, and
the air here is finally getting cold.
what I had worried about happened,
and where you are feels a life away,
like grown, like ripped sheets, like
born, like loss, like love.