Lost light fixture,
hanging smoke alarms ringing—
I can’t wake you.
The last night:
sharing my twin bed,
your furnace/your face.
When you love me, you rest your head on mine
and leave it there,
forgetting that it’s heavy.
It hurts to feel you, but you call me
girl over and over
and it makes us swell together,
melting lashes, singeing sheets.
You never know the last time is the last time.
I bought wine-colored curtains to keep
the sun out, the dark in—
the bed, it was getting so hot.
I don’t know what to do with all this love.