The Way Missing Sounds

It's said that the mourning dove mates for life,
and if its partner dies, never loves again,
just clutches a rosary of berries and keeps its habits,
which, of course, is categorically untrue,
but it just goes to show how far acoustics will take you.
There's another melancholy cry from across the lake
and my heart is somewhere in Pennsylvania.


Aeriform Ardor

I’ve begun to miss you between every
inhale
and exhale.
Vapor state memory.
The ancients believed that love
was tied to the liver,
and we use the heart,
that tired metaphor.
I don't bleed for you.
My love fills my lungs and
I held my breath today for 43 minutes.
I wished I was underwater or ground.
I was alone, save for
my rising and falling
tide.
I rend my clothes,
the ones you’ve never seen.
And when I beat my chest,
that is just wilted hope
trying to beat you back into
my lungs.