You told me mornings were the best time
to break your own heart. So here I am
smoking your brand of cigarettes for the scent.
I wonder if you still sing Beatles songs
while you make coffee. You said your mother
sang them to you when you couldn’t sleep,
19 years before we met and 20
before you moved your clothes out of our closet
while I was at work, by the way I hate you for leaving
all the photographs on the fridge, taking them down
felt like peeling off new scabs, felt like slapping a sunburn.
I spent so many nights carving your body into pillows
I can promise you nothing feels like sleeping
with your arm slung over me and your breath in my ear.
Still, it’s comforting to know we sleep under the same moon,
even if she’s so much older when she gets to me.
I like to imagine she’s seen you sleeping,
and wants me to know you’re doing well.
It’s really hard to remember not to dwell on things but when things make you easily sad then you can’t help it