Atmospheric Break

I learned you died, this morning

It happened, they said, when

it was raining, sun still out

The redbuds bloom purple

the honeybee rests on the birdfeeder

my body misses your body like 

the clouds must miss the earth

Last night, I dreamed of cigarettes

even though I don’t smoke, of sharing one 

and where your lips touched mine followed—  

I followed your lips over the arch of the meeting, 

trying to pull any part of you inside me

What does it feel like, knowing now

the only tongue your mouth will hold 

is yours? The years since we last spoke

fade like a morning mist over the trees

in the light of spring and all of my hesitancy

Everyone is dying these days, the only difference 

being I never named them friend 

There won’t be a funeral this year 

Instead, I find an old photo of us, put it on the fridge:

the two of us, young, precariously supporting a gingerbread house

between us, covered in frosting and cozy sweaters

sitting on the floor in front of the Christmas tree— 

looking for all the world like anything might last forever.

AS ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN SIMPLE MACHINES: ENGINES OF CHANGE LITERARY MAGAZINE IN THE FALL OF 2021