You opened the old curtains
with your wood-dry fingertips.

They were heavy
and the cloth yawned morning-breath light
into my face and it took my eyes
about five minutes to adjust.

I was unable to speak.

Three days later, I managed to spit out
an unclear ‘I never stopped loving you’
when really,
I should have unclogged my thirsty throat
and said how much I love those dimples
by your mouth.
I should have confessed how I want to climb inside
and rest there
forever,

but we did not have time for that many words.

The day felt depleted already
and you were about to leave -
so I put my head on your warm chest
wishing I could peel back your skin,
unbolt your ribs one by one
and whisper a raw ‘don’t go’ into the gaping hole

letting your limp hands hang loose,
I scratched my cheek when you came close.

You withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
I wanted to vacate my body
and this spent-up room, where sunrises
and nine AM traffic
remind me of you.

Instead
I removed those ugly curtains
so I no longer need you here
to open them.