I Could Write Novels

I could write novels about the two of us

sleeping in different beds, different cities,

under the same moonlit sky, unable to shake

the other from our respective minds.

 

I could write chapters about our trembling bodies

between cold sheets, heavy blankets,

stirred awake by our empty hearts, the minutes

ticking away on foreign clocks like bullets.

 

I could write pages about the looming shadows

squeezing the static air, exhaled breaths

into a wholesome vacancy, making them bleed

drops of deep blue nostalgia, nonexistent.

 

I could write sentences about my friends

on the walls, hallucinations in my mind

that sway together slowly, like we did in July

to our favorite song under the stars.

 

I could write words on my wrists with the

letters in my soul, formless strokes that slice

slowly and effortlessly, because you fell asleep

hours ago, your nakedness enfolded in two warm arms.