pilgrim

when i missed you i would go
to the trash can behind the building
& worship the flies. we had faded fast.
moved in together quicker than we should have.
i missed everything about the distance.
the highways i traced like cat's cradle threads
to reach you. in that growing absence
between us, i became a dumpster 
disciple. loved it most back there 
when someone had just moved out.
dumped their life into the green maw.
sofas & televisions & bent-arm white fans.
nothing good enough to salvage. i imagined
my own items too. what i would take
& what i would keep when we moved out too.
the building was not a place where people stayed.
instead, the doors had birds living in them.
they repainted the basement twice &
all the world smelled like plastic lungs. 
one man on the fourth floor smoked out
his bedroom window. when i was visiting
the trash his ash would from time to time
end up in my hair. i considered taking
you with me sometimes. i knew though
that it was too late. you had started to build
a car in the far lot. filled it with stolen watches.
the bookshelf in the living room fell while
no one was home. a fence started to grow
inside the apartment. if i showed you the trash
we might love each other again. that would
be too much for me. i do have a habit
of running away in the aftermath of 
a great promise. my queerness is butter-legged
& bright. is it too late to tell you about the 
garbage bins now? years later? when i no longer
have your name in my phone? i do not want
to get closer, i just want you to know 
i was witnessing my gods, the liminal. 
a power cord dangling from the mouth 
of the metal bin. the flies, chasing a sweet moon.