You'll always want your old things back. Your broken armchair, the burnt bed
you slept in — the old hair you cut off in that

rundown corner of your hometown. The water leaks from a burst pipe, and the moss
still litters the walls. You keep your body
whole.

It is okay.

He looks for your heart underneath the debris
and you told him not to. It was raining that day. (He still looks for it,
anyway.)

When you sleep in his bed, he holds your hand. At first you thought this was
a shared solitude. A sad lie you can't help but want to laugh at. But he trembles —
his fingers,

the circumference of his chest
caves in, and he sings you a lullaby

out at sea.

He named it home, for you. It holds you tiredly. The waves are still missing
that one last important word, and you start to think they've forgotten

about the things you liked best, the ones you said you couldn't throw away
because you were sick of deathlessness
crying because of you.

You stand on the railing of low bridges just so you could conceptualize falling,
and he pulls you back each time, yelling —

but you still don't know why he does
what he does.

His skin feels like the bedspreads
in your childhood room, and you like this, the way he shakes clumsily and

keeps you like that.