I am wandering like a widow among the gravestones,

peering intently at the names, searching for one

that may, at one time or another, have been mine.  

Now, it's snowing outside my window as I sit here among

my dirty bedsheets, feeling sick and useless and alone,

wishing I could be somewhere the sun shines.  

If I had written a book about love, I would say 

very little about the intricacies of your toothbrush

habits, just like you say very little about mine.  

If we could shower together, even once, and wash

each other's stains away and start again fresh 

as a snow-covered day, I would; happily.

The band plays nothing but a melancholy tune

and I am left weeping outside your room

to watch others progress like a waitress

to your table, offer up their checks 

and depart with a little tip on how 

to do better the next time around.  

I'm on the fence between death and life

and it's now and it's here and you mean

more than anything to me, more than tomorrow

and more than right now, this moment 

and you are all I can think about because 

we talked for so little but it was a fresh

new start, like I wish I could make in all

parts of my potential life.  I wish I was 

moving tomorrow, to an old country,

older than my soul, older than God,

where God was born among the dreaming

like the serpent from the river.  

It's all I can do not to sell my computer

and run away to work on a farm in a valley

between two mountains.  Past, present,

and future all embodied there.  And me

in the middle, with my hands, my gut

and my heart.  I'm crying now.