Spoon Shape

We’ve said goodbye twice in the last six months–when I drove away across country and again this morning at the airport.

This last week I wanted to promise you everything but had nothing to spare.

Curled around you in bed, your back to my belly. You call it spoon shape. This morning it felt like two question marks.

Tom Waits sings that when you get far enough away you’re on your way home. I’m on the other side of the world and I haven’t gone far enough, no matter how much I want to turn around and come home to you.

Tonight I want you to slit me open with a curved knife and slide my guts onto the cold tile floor of this six-dollar room, my blood gleaming in candlelight, your bare hands deep inside of me.

I want you to stand barefoot, the room awash in blood and slime, and drape my intestines on a rickety chair to predict a future where hope is stronger than fear.

Sew me together with jagged blue stitches and hold me spoon shape, my back to your belly. Sew me back together and tell me hope is stronger than fear