I sleep through the night, breathe evenly—constantly, still.

Thin silk against my skin. On my back.

The windows open— a slim moon, the one-eyed night

(half-closed) moves, unnoticed.

These days waking, I dress briskly—night air, lingering

moon eye, closing as I drive

away from home. I do my work. Eat breakfast.

Kiss myself. I no longer weep.

Smooth over the places we’ve been by feeling the back of my neck

close my eyes, feel your touch raise hairs on my arm.

Or, imagine your tuft, that space I knew better than

my own. My nose misses you there.

Almost five years have passed since I watched you,

bare-chested, dye my hair blue-black

more, since I made my way towards you, unaware.

I know this distance took years to unfold.

I always make my bed, mornings. Wash my hair.

Forget my dreams.

The other night, a star fell straight down.

I wished for you.