There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
Which nerve was it
running across your spine
that found me after a decade?
I do not know how to carry
a reasonable shelf life
and here you are again
trying to teach me the vocabulary
when I’d thought we left this
with empty pockets.