We slept far
in a week that wore us
like marks on walls
spelled by suitcases,
always leaving later,
lighter, but always leaving.

Rolling over an old dawn,
we mutely yawned
through each bare morning
that painted us into empty rooms
we might have opened slowly,

and yes, our tongues,
as wounded things,
wore teeth like armor,
whittled, worn by whims
of root and wander,

but when I mouthed my name
you scrawled on glass
each unspoken moment.
I leaned it in the window,
which read it to the ceiling,

and we spoke then
of wearing years like masks
of smiles, drowsy with wishing,
of blue, of plans of flesh,
of waking and wearing
each forever together.

06/30/2023

Author's Note: For Rebecca, my beloved and my friend

Posted on 06/30/2023
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen