To Take Your Place

To Take Your Place

Your room sucks me in: a vacuum, grasping my body
like a scared child.

I see a bed to sleep in, shoes to walk in, and drawers to open,
all lit by the blue glow of the alarm clock
blinking on the floor.

When you left, all this remained untouched, tidy, anxious
for your return:

the unruffled bed, lines of shoes, and folded clothes
(as if obedience could make people
stay).

And I, standing in the midst of it, broke my heart,
split myself in two to take
your place.

I could wear your white hat to hide from the sun, your polo shirt
to protect my heart.

Your work pants are covered in the dirt of trying to build
a life for yourself,

away from the endless hallway in our apartment,
the locked doors, the cluttered corners,

where my books lie half open beside my winter jacket
and other skins I shed.

If I could put all of this on, what would it be?
An armor? A disguise? A mockery?

I am not older than the clothes given me
nor stronger than the wall I lean on.

I am heavier for trying to hold you in my mirror.

Too bad, I can never cast your shadow,
taller than myself
and more whole than either of us.

Too bad, your voice won’t form in my throat;
it’s stuck deeper, within veins of memories
unable to bleed.