I am alive with you in the gray morning
you are two inches away
curled and warm like our hands
in the pale collars of a rainstorm.
I can tell you’re smiling from the friction
of your thin lips against my shirt,
your breath strokes the back of my neck
as it swims through the covers
and wraps you around my shoulder.
I am thawed when you look at me,
your glasses are trimmed in red
and your hair sprawls across my body
while the rest of you, and the rest of me
stay burrowed beneath the darkened clouds.
The world could end
while I’m with my therapist
telling him about how I wanted to cry
watching a drunk old man singing carols
surrounded by snow-covered poinsettias
because it reminded me of being happy,
holding her hand on spray painted concrete
and kissing her in a bronze colored elevator.
It could end right after I confess
that cold mornings make me miss her more
than I ever thought, and how it feels
worse than the sky falling in.
Just hours after the last quiet dawn
as entire buildings collapse around us
like branches trimmed from a rosemary bush,
I’d say to him, “I fucking told you so.”
Profile: Ananta Prayitno