now that night has tucked the others into bed
and the cat sleeps in the windowsill

will I run naked through the house

moonlight seizing on my flushed skin

when I give it chance between the windows

and, when I have done

I will lay above the sheets and quiver there

letting myself hang loose and open for the thrill

lolling with the sway of the curtains in the breeze

that hang above the cat, who doesn’t wake

and I will whisper to you even though you are not there

and try to recall the shape of your hands
and wonder why I can not cry
as I finger the fraying edges of the bullet hole

in that sweater I was wearing

the night that I died

or rather, the last night that I lived

that night we sat on the cement of the driveway

as the sun tripped and fell into the ocean

and our feet fell asleep

and we made up harmonies to songs on  my guitar

and ate popcorn with soy sauce

and caught fireflies with our eyes closed

just to prove we could

I remember that feeling, too

the one of living

that feeling of your blood rushing a little closer to the surface

when you can taste your own heart beating in your throat

I was alive

I was alive when we waltzed to the cicada’s hum

a quilt around our shoulders

candles hanging from the trees

like jewels

or tears

but now I just pretend to be alive

clinging to the sleeve of my memories

draining them of color

like a spider

trying to find that thrill I used to keep

so easily

like a butterfly in the jar beside my bed

that flew away when you were gone

the one I looked for by running naked through the house

when I should be asleep