This is a view of you in your dark green glasses
from the little photographic plate
inside my head.
Your tight freckles
and your short hair
that I stupidly felt the need to explain.
You’re a painter and a poet
and better than me
and I don’t blame you.
I deserve this empty house
But the more I look at this little globe
and the long, dark, slick expanse
of the wet courtyard in front of me
the more I feel my distance from you.
I’ve never missed someone’s hands more.
If it weren’t raining so hard
in the small green overgrown garden out my window
I’d go outside
and hang my heart out on a rose bush to dry,
because if you looked you’d see
that it’s raining pretty heavily
in here too.