I wanted to write about something

else, something practical like

a grocery list for the kitchen

that I don’t own, a religion

essay that’s due Tuesday, or

an ode for the plants that died

in my freshman dorm room. However,

 

it’s 41 minutes past the anniversary

of our first kiss under a myriad

of bright stars, not nearly as interesting

as your eyes had been, on a dock

that moved our bodies in time

with waves below, bringing cold air

unusual for Florida, that we accepted

as an excuse to dwell interlocked

in each other's warm bodies for just

another moment longer. Little did I know,

365 days, 41 minutes, and 42,051,900

heartbeats would pass, and I’d be stuck

sitting here, trying to write about something

else. Step One: To My Deceased

 

Plants, I brought you into a home that was

as new to me as you were to the world.

You were fresh and green, soil firm,

colors of spring in the dry summer,

 

lined up on a small window sill

absorbing the still light

I provided, and you shone

right back at me, until now.

 

Now it’s autumn, and

you came undone,

so I scattered your

dry leaves in the parking lot.

 

There’s space where you sat,

surrounded by dust, a clean

shape of a circle, only

circles aren’t supposed to end.

 

So I went back around to writing,

my finger brushing away the dust,

“How to Put Yourself Back

Together: An Instruction Manual.”