Bodies

Peculiar how the voice
is first
to trail off,
yours,
as the new body
that’s left
vanishes into
mine,
and I grasp inside
the ache of it
as it assumes
the silky weight
of the newly drowned.
Though,
it is never quite in my hand.
In my palm,
it is the near
weightlessness of a
bird from summer’s
waterless grass.
However, now
it is winter,
almost,
and I am standing at this open door
calling
your name as I
listen within it
for mine.
It is waiting to ask, where am I
that I must call out
for you.
I need you to answer
simply
because I do not
understand
the manner in
which
me and you,
in one way or another,
lost you and
me
in the very same place.

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