Today makes it two years, and
this time it doesn’t matter anymore. I know this
because I’ve been jumping into forest fires to make up for your absence,
because
The Universe stopped holding its breath for us, the sun
keeps its distance,
picking the astronomy from underneath your fingernails like
the way you said your last goodbye:
Too disinterested to call it a night, too
distracted you let the night fall anyway,
and this is the last poem I’ll write because
It’s the first poem I’ve called you by name. A h,
we still built something beautiful together. Even if the chapel isn’t holy
it still has room for one more god, even if we’re nonbelievers
we still had a reason to pray. So,
You’re six hours and a Great Lake away from me, and
I’m still leaving the door open if you need to slam it. Because you left it there,
with the way you held your breath like we were underwater,
with the way you kept your hands to yourself, my skin still soaked with all
That sulfur. This time it doesn’t matter anymore. But still,
maybe some small part of me, half-charred, half-explosive,
half-hungry for the other half of me,
burns still.
Sean Glatch
Inspired by Sandra Cisneros’ One Last Poem for Richard
Edited to protect his name