[post-apocalypse]
every time i build a coffin,
you are more tender in my memory;
but i have never known anyone
so unfamiliar, impermanent.
(only a name on the inside cover
of a history textbook.)
every sunset feels like a song
about the way i miss you,
about the way i can’t say sorry.
(for letting you give birth
in the toilet at a petrol station,
among everything else.)
i keep having these dreams
where i meet you by the ocean;
we stumble into salt water,
and it feels like an apology.
i have written about you,
called you a kerosene lover,
someone worth remembering
despite regret, despite it all.
so i am thanking you
for the sadness. it is the least
beautiful thing i have,
but it makes me an artist.
and god forbid you should
forget me — fuck moving on.
i am only half-awake, but
still writing poetry about your eyes,
and that is the last thing
i would ever apologise for.