Let Me Tell You
--after The Zombies “She’s Not There”
Well let me tell you about the way
she looked sleeping next to me: Blue
hair, brown skin; a cartoon
doe in the forest of my bed.
Let me tell you about her
slumber: One pillow, no
blankets; her body warmed by
alcohol and summer’s night.
Moonlight and mezcal
inspired her to whisper
sonnets in her sleep.
Let me tell you that she’s gone:
a memory/a dream/an expired
touch. Everything half-forgotten,
washed away with coffee,
before work the next day.
And let me tell you about the way
I felt: Like a pile of
romance novels left unread. I didn’t
sleep at all the next night,
nor the hundred nights that followed.
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