Anniversary

The last day I saw you,
picked you up outside a restaurant we never ate in—
the place we never had the chance to order wine
or share a sweet dessert—
never holding hands across the table
like lovers do,
you only climbed into my old rusty car
out of the gray rain and said,
guilty without looking at me,
“You can turn right here.”

On the last day I saw you
we drove to a lake I’d never seen,
a water dark with spring
near an empty playground
and looked at each other
a long time until the silence
required payment.
We dug deep into our pockets
to find the words we’d said about the end
so many times.
I could feel the syllables crawl
out of the back of my ache
and I hated myself for not knowing
how to break the rules—
jump over the fence
and dive into the dangerous water
and live.

Instead, I was the good girl
who knew not
how to forget the boundaries
that always threaten to damage
and tear apart the invisible cloth
of someone else’s will—
The velvet hood
before the noose
taking my breath away.

On the last day
when you rested your hand
on my heart,
released my spirit
like a frightened bird
into the empty sky
with no where to land,
I lost everything

Your kindness still vibrates
in the places on my face
where you touched me
with your lips
and your wisest eyes.

Your smell of soap
and cinnamon evaporates
with the sweat of this much loss.

Now I wander through a graveyard of last days
shaking the bones of the body
where you will never live
and I cannot endure
this broken music
of nothing.