I watch the sun rise behind your mouth
and wonder if you remember
the tired waitress;
bored before it began.
You are a valley of mother
a sprawl of grandma’s back porch
and West Village brownstone.
I can still smell the eucalyptus oil
you took from your kitchen cupboard.
We are all hungry to find somewhere new.
Your hands are carved oaks
and your mouth is still honest.
But what could I ever know about
I was just the tea you made
to stay awake.
I’d rather not be Eleanor Rigby
but if you need a new muse,
with eyes heavy as sleep
some things will never change.
Do you write the same stories
on new skin
and only change the names?
I still can’t tell what it is I want,
but you don’t have the answers,
The smoke, the carpet,
the poems on the desk.
What is it you were hoping?
I counted strings on your steel guitar
while you told me about the book;
everything you love came close.
I took my shoes off,
drank the rose hips tea, and listened
to your skin hum story.