I'm too tired to find the stairs that lead to heaven. Still,

I think I'm doing okay. Still

steeped in lavender, l miss you still,

the morning dew on your shoulder blades and, still,

the spilled rum on the carpet, the soft yawn of the sun still

stepping over its own sighs, as I reach across the bed to taste the stale, still

mint from your tongue while somewhere, a town grows so still

it will never wake again. Don't worry, I promise this is a love poem. Still,

the chyron at the bottom of the television screen still

reads BREAKING NEWS as weeks later, bombs still

keep stealing kisses from buildings. I hear Jesus wept, but I'm pretty sure he's still

weeping. I promise this really is a love poem. Still,

I never forget to count the bullet casings still

scattered along the linoleum floor of the produce section of Kroger. Still,

I miss you so much, it's stupid. Still,

My dad was dying and then he was dead. Still,

my sister, the same. So, if I grow too quiet to be still,

please tell my daughter that sometimes a door is still

a door, and sometimes a backpack is still

a backpack, just with a bulletproof spine. Tell her, still,

sometimes all you can do is duck and be still.

Tell her my favorite history lesson still

hasn't been written, and that after everything, sometimes there is still

nothing else to say except help, please help, as I tell you yes, this is still

a love poem.

Refill your prescriptions on time. Trade in your quilted blanket for a pair of heels. Trip down a flight of stairs. Drink Cabernet Sauvignon straight from the bottle. Never wake up before your alarm. Wear your hair long. Wear your hair short. Shave off all your hair and learn how to play poker. Buy a bra that makes your tits look like Daytona Beach in the spring. Forget you bought the bra. Breed dinosaurs so you have a reason to hold hands and run through a forest with Jeff Goldblum. Go to Starbucks and spill coffee on every man peppered in salt. Touch their wrists. Look each of them in the eye and say, Oh, my my. Go to bed with rug-burned knees. Keep your phone charged. Briefly date a man who speaks in semicolons and traces rollercoasters down your spine. Make out on a park bench seventeen minutes before the start of fall. Buy a removable shower head. Buy a yoga mat. Drink eight glasses of water every day. Stop lying to your psychiatrist and actually take the prescriptions you refilled on time. Replace your shoulder blades with a pair of wings. Fly directly into the sun.

There was light, the fake kind, the kind that always looks like it just chipped a tooth. There was a cigarette, maybe two, though it’s hard to count when your heart beats in multiples of hummingbird. I can’t figure out how much of my heart is fiction, but you haven’t tasted depressed in weeks, so I’m not worried about the spider climbing across the bedroom ceiling. Nine years later I watch you get dressed for tomorrow two hours early. Our bodies, older than we both remember—softer, achingly quiet, loose buttons on a flannel—though the sheets still smell the same, and the sweat on your neck is still my favorite drink to order at the bar. Nine years later and I am drawn back to the weather of ache. What they don’t teach you in college is that every house is haunted if someone fell in love in it. I could walk through a wall but where would I go? It is hard to say goodbye to what was already a goodbye. It took too long for me to learn that if you pour a beer into the ocean, it will become the ocean. When was the last time the moon was given a bath? My left hand is drunk. I wish magic was cheaper. Still, I am covered in clouds. Come see.