The spring we couldn’t stop hurting
& never learned a thing,
I pulled blankets to the foot of the stairs
when you were too drunk to climb.

I pulled blankets to the foot of the stairs,
counted backward & cradled your head
when you were too drunk to climb
& dreamed of the number zero.

I counted backward & cradled your head.
You’d never looked so fire-red, so helpless.
& we dreamed of the number zero
but it wasn’t the same dream.

You never looked (so fire-red, so helpless)
just murmured & shook, focused on something,
but it wasn’t the same dream
you’d tell me in the morning.

You murmured & shook, focused on something
important – burgundy walls? the echoes of lace?
You’d tell me about the morning
afterward, when it was all too late to save.

Was it important? Burgundy walls, the echoes of lace,
flowers leaned on a coughing door? I don’t know.
Only after, when it was all too late to save,
I understood the dream, finally. You were the

flowers. (I lean, coughing, at the door.) I don’t know
if I deserve this, if I asked for it, if I’ll ever learn to admit
finality. But I understood. You were
already gone, love, weren’t you? We were both lying.

What do I deserve? Ask. I still won’t admit you were
already gone. We were wretched loves, weren’t we? Lie down
again, here. I’ll pull blankets to the foot of the stairs.
& neither of us need ever learn a thing.