The sun is a hot bruise,
lighting up the now cold bed
where we once laid—
Even though
I will never tell you
where I’ve been,
I will wait forever
for you to call out
my name again
as I search your name feverishly in the sky.
Our names could have been entwined,
sheltered from the jealous sun—
but you disappeared
without leaving behind any possible plans.
I now lie in this bed, used.