packing him up for New York,
in his backpack I find
a 9-volt battery, a bus pass,
a dirty pair of ear plugs.
and there he is.
I spread them out on the bed.
listening to him in the other room
putting on mixed up tracks,
I hear him over there
and yet
here he is right in front of me
on the bedspread that needs washing.
a spent battery that
his guitar pedal must have
used up months ago,
a crosstown trip
he took on February 21st of last year.
I miss him already.
I spend hours memorizing
the feel of his big arms
all around me
not just holding
but
loving me,
loving even the spaces around me
just because they are
close to me.
in the next room
he slows the pace,
switches to jazz,
and I suddenly remember
how we are all made of
molecules
that have no boundaries,
how even the brightest minds of our time
can't explain
why everything doesn't just
pass right through
everything else,
how we are all mixed up,
how no one knows why
we can't see it.
and just like that
I find the way,
the first reasonable thread
that I can pull,
the start of letting go
that lets him be
inside my cells
all the time,
the way even his old
bus pass
has come inside my body.
he's always home with me.
I let go the walls
and he starts playing Tom Waits.
there is nothing else
but us.
