I lay with my lethargy
under night skies,
in cool, blue grass
with dew settling to sleep
around me.
My breathing is so soft,
so still,
you might think me dead.
I might think myself dead.
There is barely a fall or a trip
in my chest
and my eyes are wide to the void,
how it surrounds me
and swallows me with its grace.
I am shallow,
drifting off to navy dreams,
ebbing with every lungful,
and my thoughts are empty,
my grave is shallow.
It makes a bed of me
just like she did.
I think the stars remind me of her
because they are romantic,
and they weigh me down,
the way she used to.
I melt into what surrounds me,
and I smell like oxygen
and morning fog,
planting my roots into
where I hope her heart is,
where it used to be

in my front yard.