I hold your hand in the rain as you twirl me around;
it must be wonderful to be a part of someone’s elaborate scheme.
If I could etch it into your name plates, with deep cuts in the gold, I would,
If I could broadcast our telephone greetings, if only I could.
Your smile is a bomb shelter and a rose parade
as if God themself decided you deserved it.
My mama says “come home,
you are playing house.”
I come home.
I don’t disagree.
I throw myself on my bed,
a substitute for a sturdy chest,
and pray for a California earthquake
to feel your heartbeat.
I wake up in the middle of the night
to a shake in the ground.
Only six feet under,
the hypocenter telling me
you’re thinking of me too.