Rose Water Elegy
I stitch the sky at its tearing seams and pour sunlight into
an urn. I leave it at the cemetery and go back to your
house. No one is inside. I am waiting for you. Your coffee
still stains the carpet. I steal the coins tucked between
the couch cushions and head to the park. I throw your
coins on grass patches, dirty fountains, old pillows,
dirty fountains. I go back to your house and I see you
waiting for me by the door. It smells like rose water. You
hand me a basket of berries and I eat them all, staining my
memory. I don’t want to leave but I have to leave
to get you a gift. I get you your urn and I go back to your
home. No one is inside. It smells like your home. I trip over
the coffee-stained carpet and I break your urn, spilling
sunlight on the floor like overflowing rose water.
I am waiting for you. I’ll buy you another gift.
I’ll tell you everything. I want to tell you everything.