Taut

You are the terrible pulling of my heart.

You are the morning sun snaked too late
and lonely under the edge of my eyes.

You are the empty covers, the scent-less sheets,
the articles of one person's life scattered across
an apartment.

You are the steep of soaking dishes, unnecessary two nights
in a row.

You are the soreness of that soft
and raging place--longed and lingered over fiercely until
forgotten in quick'ning afternoon light (taillights edging away).

You are an uneasy bookend—
a fiery chapter.

You are the lost
and limitless stretch between sensation
and hope.

You are not mine.

You are the terrible pulling of my heart.