From a Poor Old Woman

If all of the observable stars in the
galaxy
Were divided amongst earth’s
population
Everyone would end up with
44.2 trillion stars

And on the night
I felt like I had nothing
I counted to 44.2 trillion:
“Those are mine.”

r.m. // 2013

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He Was a Man Who Wore His Heart on His Sleeve

and how often i loved
to wear his clothes:
at first just a jacket when i was cold,
then an old t-shirt when mine were all new,
then a band hoodie i wore
as if it were his hand-me-down.
i’d put on his thermal
before we went to bed so i felt
like his twin; we both belonged there.
i opened his drawers every
other day to see which piece
of him i wanted with me:
his size, his style, or image.
most of all, i wanted
his smell.

nothing in the world smells as good
as the person you love–
no ocean breeze can bring the solace
washed onto his body,
no candle exists which ignites the warmth
burned into his clothes,
not a single cookie can satisfy the crave
tasted in his breath.

he wore his heart on his sleeve and i
stole his jacket: safety
in scary places, breath
between sobs, peace
on sleepless nights, love

at least until the scent i stole
begins to fade, then i’ll
give it back, with my scent on his sleeve.

r.m. // 2015