i was stretched out like a garden.
you were pulling the weeds.

the table is set
with even, straight lines
measured out spaces
the dullest knives

then it was evening,
but now it is night,
sink dripping,
the occasional headlight
moving through the windowpane

i dreamt about you last night
(& i fell out of bed twice)

...
in the same way that dirt beneath your fingernails
proves that you're alive

every winter's ending seems impossible,
but it's merely just unwritten
& i'm hoping those days were the final paragraphs,
waiting for the closure of punctuation
in the form of an open window