that I lied,
that I kissed
man when it
should have been
that had no
you and I
It came to me today, this revelation of our future
apart. I sat in a coffee shop, listening to people
read poems or the works of others, some dead,
some living, and I thought, what should happen
to my poems if I died?
I shuddered, seeing you at my desk, reading
my poems because you don’t even read them now
and I think you’ll never want to read them--
all the other mouths, the hands
that weren’t yours, the fantasies I made up
to replace what wasn’t there, but how are you to know
the difference, to separate the fact from fiction?
Then I picture you rummaging
through my desk, finding notes
not in your handwriting, smelling
of oceans, of musk, of not you, reaching me
in ways I’d wished you could.