see you next year

there was a hole in the roof
where all the cicadas came in.
i called you to ask if i was 
really alive or if everything had ended
when your plane turned into a matchstick. 
i cannot remember the first time
i lied to make someone else comfortable.
it was probably summer. your car,
in the lake. we drove until 
our faces fell off. until the hole
in the roof was like another country. 
yesterday my dad called to tell me
about my grandfather's stamps he had found
in the crawlspace beneath the house.
each was a door & he told me,
"i have been knocking all night."
he dropped them off on my porch telling me,
"i can't wait anymore." in the garage he is
becoming a priest of his own religion.
i think i might have the same religion
without noticing it. we confess to each other
& pull the curtains shut. in the shower
i am just a pebble washing myself.
i have friends i see once a year & friends i see
once a lifetime. when we parted ways
i do not think i said goodbye. the snow globe 
broke in the living room. all the storm
coming down outside. fish in the sink. 
i crave meat sometimes. my lover says,
"listen to your body." i never have,
so why should i start now? when i see you
next year even if i don't i think we should
go barefoot. i think we should roam 
the electric fields in search of copper. 
i think i should tell you how much 
i wanted to stay inside the iris of 
a broken planet.  maybe that is an apology
or maybe it is an admission of guilt. 
are we at fault for when the ocean is 
a zoo of feeling? i suppose we are. i will 
see you next year. we'll have the hole patched up
or we will just embrace it. 
you can come star-gazing.