After its reign of dearth by December,

The harmattan will bury itself

In the sands with the autumn leaves—

We’re all seasons, and this cold wind

Blows everything away except memories.

Dearest, I wear your thoughts on my skin

And embalm with an ointment and sleeves.

I pray for warmth—the type your voice oozes.

Hear me from this wall—they have ears too.

This bed is the tomb where I buried your face.

A friend walked into my room and wondered why

I was rubbing this sheet. The blind can

See their past, so what’s ahead of me

Is what this night harbors behind the moon.

I hope the dawn breaks the shell of my hurt into dews.

Or, does moving on have to be this heavy

For the whole body? My heart is the weight

My legs cannot carry elsewhere.

No wonder they say there’s more to life.

I did not know it was the weight of our hearts.

I let this moment lose me to the mouth of morrows.   

I should be taken away by the thief of time

Into another space, where love is not

A lost chapter in this scripture.

But here we are, still searching

For where to find the voice of God

On our tongues. Here I am,   

Yelling at the door for allowing you

To walk out on me for the last time.