You

You’re immortalized in maple syrup
And sticky-note wallpaper;
Pink skies are good for your health
And my definition of you
Is both ‘the gone’ and ‘the gathered’,
But I’m never sure of your
Wooden optimism and inability
To stop loving clichés simply because
They’re so cliché. You would
Buy me some roses and
Confectioner’s sugar and maybe a few
Second chances, and your nails
Would dance on guitar strings
On the top shelf of a last-stop romance.
You are platinum �" you lie in the dark
A lot and think about your
Porcelain oaths and, if you just wait,
The taste of your tombstone.
Your philosophy makes me snort:
What you’d do with thirty-seven socks
And the fez you love that doesn’t
Fit are reminders of the dusk in
Your mortal mind, immortalized
In maple syrup, I can only glance at
From my aquarium viewpoint.
You know all about my missing
Crayon, and yeah, you may have taken
It just so you could bring
Your pencil, and duct tape to patch
The holes that the cascade of
Not-quite mercy, love, and other
Useless things have kissed, after a
Thousand days, into the soles of my
Shoes. You are drenched in
Silhouettes and permafrost, chasing
Shadows, and stand
Blinking like the pessimistic truth of
All things hateful, but you bring
Me your Pop Tarts and confessions,
And I love you. If there was a moment
For a big, well-thought-out speech,
This would be it. I didn’t think
This far ahead and there are some
Things better left unsaid, and we’re
Both horrible at unsaying things.
Yellow paperclips and daffodils
In an old tea kettle are never going to
Be the things that measure
Your gauge point with soot and soil
And nobody could ever be born
With the kind of scars that leaves.
Do for me your stupid clichés
And do them for Wednesday because
I’ll see you then, and I’ll
Make sure you see me and those
Pink skies that are so much
Better for your health than you are.
You’ve got sound knowledge
About clocks and black holes
And bikes, and I will not, I will never, be
The one to tell you about the
Silver in the water, and
The warning shots fired every
Time you try to cross it. When the
Suns burn out and your favorite
TV shows start airing again I will count
The thrums behind your
Chest: drumbeat, heartbeat,
Drumbeat, dead. And while I was
Counting you’d write a dozen
Ridiculous things on an old
Lavender couch just for me, like ‘How
To Avoid Being Stabbed By a Unicorn’
And ‘How to Put Hitler In a Cupboard’,
Because you’re focused so on
Not doing the impossible. On how to not
Do the impossible. It’s
Tiring to listen to you go on about
Snow at 3 a.m. and yet, somehow, I still
Know that I’ll withstand all
The things I dislike because I know
Just waking up in the morning
Is enough to make you happy, and if
I do that, I’ve done enough.