3:44. The fridge kicks in. For a second, something answers. I haven’t slept enough to call this waking. The glass is cold; the room is holding still. Small constellations gather at the bottom, Rise to the surface, disappear at will. Your last receipt is folded to a crane. One paper wing is drinking from the spill. I move it back, then put it where it was— A little thing I haven’t learned to leave alone. Across the street, a curtain moves. I almost turn to tell you. Some part of me still saves a place For everything you’d laugh at. If there’s a seam in the sky, Let a little air come through. Every shadow in this room Has learned to look like you. Who do the lost gods call When their stars go black? I send your name into the dark— It’s my voice I can’t get back. The window sticks an inch above the sill. Outside, a loose sign shivers in the wind. I watch my face appear between the buildings; A passing headlight cuts it off again. I write a line and leave the ending empty. Your name would fit. I’ve used it once too much. The clock ticks twice before I hear the second. I lose my place and call it writer’s block. A footstep stops outside the door. My hand forgets you’re gone. I’m halfway up before I hear The neighbor’s television coming on. If there’s a seam in the sky, Let a little air come through. Every shadow in this room Has learned to look like you. Who do the lost gods call When their stars go black? I send your name into the dark— It’s my voice I can’t get back. I try to hear the way you said my name Before I had to play it back. The little breath before the second syllable— I never thought I’d lose a thing like that. I hold the phone. The screen goes dark. My thumb stays where your voice should start. If there’s a seam in the sky, I can’t see where it runs. The glass has lost its little stars; I watched them leave, one by one. Who do the lost gods call When their stars go black? I send your name into the dark, Then listen to the breath that follows. I don’t know if I miss your voice Or how mine sounded next to yours. The neighbor turns the TV down. I hear the pipes inside the walls. The paper crane has lost its shape. I smooth one wing against my knee. Your coffee order shows through the fold. I’d forgotten you took it sweet.
