I opened my front door

like the lid of a can of peas–

I hesitated to get cut on the frame’s edges.

I left with feet wet from the mush water

and my purple coat

wrapping me up

like a cranberry granola bar.

I thought about how many people

I have been.

I wanted to know

if I love you with the same

blood as the day before–

If there is any part of

me written in the sidewalk.

I think about

what stories they will remember

at my funeral.

They’ll piece each anecdote together to

form a collage of an almost-woman

who was never anything more

than breath pouring into

the cold morning.

I love too many parts

of you that I think a list

would be too much to write

so I’ll just say that

when I open canned peas

I think about the curve

of the corner of your lips

and when I walk in the

melting snow

I wonder equally where you’re

going

and where your breath

fades in to the cold.