October

I went into your room to grab a cup for a drink and I stopped to look at your bed,
head cocked with a hand on my hip.

The History of Sexuality (I swear to God) was open face down,
your neat shoes nearby on the floor, and a shirt was laid out,
as if you had considered wearing it but chose another.

The simple, deliberate nature of the still life reminded me of how you combed your hair before breakfast that morning, with intention, and how that previous night, you had read my tattoo right off of my skin, touching each word with your index finger, “Your very flesh shall be a great poem.” 

Your voice, normally so precise with finality was slightly slurred. We had drank a few beers that night.