I am a car
Pulling over on the side
Of an old dirt road
I am the flickering dark of the stories
my parents never told
I am too much snow
and you are not dressed for the cold
I am the look on your face
when I told you to go
I am the last song Sinatra sang,
the very last note
I am the bloody history of
”text me when you get home”
I am not the coffin
or the hand you’ll hold
when you are old
I am your favourite Roald Dahl book
and Dr. Seuss quote
I am the feeling in your stomach
when you know it’s time to go
I am having sex
and wishing I was alone
I am 4pm on sunday
somewhere quiet by the coast
I am something you scribble aged 10
in pencil in class
passing notes
I am mis-remembering that green shirt
you wore as Rose
I am
all dressed up
and too many places to go
I am thinking of all the ways
that you are here
when I am alone
Picturing you in bed
with people I don’t know
and I’m feeling kind of sick
But that feeling is my own