So much of my life has been spent at the bottom of cobblestone steps,
between two pots of geraniums.
We scribbled silver linings
on crumpled paper
and buried them beneath pansies
out back.
We said we’d come back for them someday
When our beginnings had ended
And our endings had begun.
One day, he left.
He picked up his battered briefcase
and murmured goodbyes with clasped hands.
His name sat unused on my tongue
for a very long time.
Yellowing sunlight drenched his back
And I watched from a thin glass window and baby blue walls
as the tires crushed his favorite shirt and his crimson blood splashed the concrete.
And those sirens screamed raw into my ears.
It rained aluminum-silver
And the dress I wore was ebony piano keys.
I whispered soft goodbyes and recalled
his fingers when they made the violin sing.
And they put him in the ground,
and he broke his promise
that we would always eat the same pancakes,
and he would always steal the blankets at night on that creaky mattress
and he would always write my name in loopy lettering
and always tell the same bad jokes
and I would always laugh in the same way.
I wanted to leave,
move somewhere where I couldn’t understand a word
that had strange food and purple skies
Somewhere I could forget the sound of my name on his lips.
But I knew if I left
those gray cobblestone steps and blue geraniums
he would really leave for good.
So I dug out those silver linings
In that loopy, elegantly messy script
And I framed it over our bed
like a promise to sing me to sleep.