I’ll miss your seedless fruit
and aquariums and viscous nights
lined with jazz and frostbite
and funeral pyres that sent off
children I don’t remember
being me. I envy the sky’s role—not
for light, for inspiration. Paint me
with Jupiter’s colors and
Mercury’s stoicism and my
father’s ability to endlessly
resurface when you drag him down
in the cradle of your undertow.
I’m sorry for not being
intimate anymore. When
you give me false contractions
of easy love I want to stop
your insides from working
again. When I last breathe
your sweet, verdant neon,
remember me as overcast,
a lichen, a festering silence
that only grows sweeter in
the absence of.