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:






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.