She finally left—years in the making is the version

you tell as we sit in your apartment and drain

a bottle of Old Overholt Rye in the shadow

of foraged objects you collected like an old couple

antiquing: Pair of midcentury brass lamps, a salvaged

Eames chair, Fender and Gibson propped up

like prodigal children, mounted deer heads

from a taxidermy enthusiast you met on tour

somewhere in Idaho, a library of unread graphic

novels and vintage photographs striking that perfect

note of curated indifference while they scream

in their tiny frames: Are we not beautiful enough?

Your reserve elegizes her: foe granted

sainthood after nearly a decade of driving you

in circles—stunned by her gall to leave, forsaken

with relics gathering unwanted freckles of time,

you recall miles through vacant clubs and faces

of surly men buried in emptied glasses as if

those were the glory days when you thought yourself

brimming with promise—and lo, she haunts

the frets of our muted reunion. You rest your head

on my lap as I stroke your thinning hair, a scene

that must mimic the Pietà. A goddamn pity

party, really. I begin to shiver as I often do in dusty

cathedrals filled with exquisite, silent things—

things so entwined, you mistake wonder

for woe. You hum a ditty as I opine to no one

but my own whiskey reflection: Where on earth

have you been all these years?  Bygones.

Nothing matters anymore. Your skin buckles

from my warm thumbs as I knead the back

of your neck like unleavened bread and gaze

over the length of your sighing limbs, watching

the rift expand between the oars. Multitudes,

I do not contain, for I certainly can’t sing

the blues, so I marvel instead at how the tenor

of your skin no longer soars, strumming

my fingers on your chest like an acoustic guitar

gifted a second life—to welcome

the quiet and perhaps another muse.