the comforter

it’s the kind of cold outside that raises the skin on my arms

i want this kind of verse to spill out of me, a fine vintage

my words etching a solar ring around us a plush comforter

holding me soft fabric murmuring a lover’s sashaying

caressing reminding us there are deep questions

on the table, next to the cheese

behind the onions and wine

i’m not always ready for the answers

in fact, the bravest thing about me happens during a cold

night when shallow breaths curl to the blue moon

my hands still warm, the heat clutched in my fists

i hold the tatters of my heart up to my mouth

and find within myself the impossibility of caring

how someone else is doing, it’s gotta’ matter

out from inside the big door is swinging open

revealing thoughts so hard they’re locked-up in journals

for our own safety…

we casually mention our subjects

life, death, and love, so maybe

our awkward conversation can remind you:

none of us know the first thing about loss

nothing about the answers or the questions

we only know, Friend —

there is meaning in connection.

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