The evening sends warning

in Morse code through fireflies.

 

It tells us not to ask.

 

***

 

I asked the universe, why,

while staring at the ceiling.

 

The spackle did not arrange itself

into an answer.

 

***

 

Losing your love

is the darkest art

we’ve been gifted.

 

I dialed my voicemail,

breathing in cologne

you let settle onto a pillow

long ago.

 

You told me

about grocery shopping,

about walking the dog,

about going to the museum

with Janet.

 

I kept reminding myself

it had only been days.

This too shall pass.

 

***

 

My grandfather taught me

flowers bloom without us.

 

The world finds ways to rid itself

of what it does not need.

 

***

 

Come home from worry.

Take off your shoes. Climb

into bed. It has warmth.

It has a body.

It has the sound of lovers

soaked into the sheets.

 

***

 

My grandfather taught me

the secret to love:

 

Longing.

 

***

 

It is sickness we don’t expect.

I know we are not immortal,

but this finality I refuse to accept.

So I don’t.

 

If the universe thinks like him,

then I was always wrong.

 

The questions I asked

have no answers.