I was the open window
in the middle of night
after mountains rang
a chorus of tiny fragile bells;
Storm clouds in gray uniform
border the sky and enter your bedroom
to have their way with your small limbs,
curled in silhouettes of sticky cotton;
The kind you fantasized
at the carnival as a kid.
Two blue jays come sit
nodding to each other,
watching the soldiers clean your room
of everything that would remind me of you.
Your cracked paper weights;
Your pink post-it notes
dotting your mirror like rain on soap.
The struggle was yours
and I could only sigh
that you had left me open
on a night such as this,
with so much cold to blister our lips.
Be warm now.
The sun is almost up.
And the sweet spirit of your parents
have tread up the stairs
to wrap your body
in the heavy winter blanket
that knows your every goose bump,
like static boiling its way through rubber—
or my hands pushing to feel your muscle.