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.