I remember the tousled sheets
decorated with all the dialogue of scarecrows
that we piled at the foot of your bed
like some misplaced linen tombstone
erected above the sappy, wet remains
of a night well spent
misbehaving
of arms and legs
and everything in between
of gasping laughter
and clenching fingers
of a night
where our spent joy
hung triumphant
like the ripest memory
and your starry eyes
rewrote the constellations
I had memorized
in some January sky
so long ago
and the words we whispered
over sticky pillows
between aching gulps of air
rose up and clung
like sweaty icicles
to the ceiling
they hung over our heads
for the rest of the year
dripping and
promising death
whenever that fickle bedroom weather
threatened to turn
and
I know
I left
before they could fall
before Consequence could finish
unpacking her things
and move in
on the sly:
a new permanent resident
in the fresh debacle
of our lives
and it would be a lie
to say
that I regretted it
any of it
what was said and
what was done
but I do sometimes
wince
at what was left
unfinished
between us
and
I still wonder
fairly often
how I ever
made it
out
alive