Sorry for the pain you’re in
The last day he was here, I woke him up with a silver fountain pen. He opened his humming evening eyes as I lay upon him, delicately pressing his long body into the cotton-stocking sheets, and began to write poetry across the seamless skin of his paper white chest.
I got as far as the end of the word “Love”.
Later, in the shower, as a miracle might, I saw the word survive hot water, clove soap and our bodies painfully pressed together in tight comforting hugs. I thought of it at the airport, how it was still resting above his heart in graffiti black ink under his shirt, and how it would travel home with him on the plane like a new neighbor. I said nothing, but my reckless fingers pressed against it, saying goodbye, and my lips, as if they never meant to stay.