3 days since our last conversation
and your words press
through the phone
like you're stepping
onto a frozen lake in early january.
Treading slowly past the familiar
I can picture you, on the edge
of your bed, shirtless, in your ripped
plaid boxers, taking off your socks, one
then the other
and our green candle we would light at night
and our clear blue dishes that the farm gave us
and our jade plant.
we’re almost tip toeing now
“when will you visit?”, he says.
I can still smell you on my lips if I try hard enough.
and when you say good bye
my name spills out of your mouth
like a stranger or a lost lover
or like a muffled crack from beneath the ice.
