Sexism and sleepy stones

When you ask,
I will tell you
this poem is
a crystal globe,
awaiting the dawn
of your forehead.
My metaphors
shout for the coat hanger
your voice would bring
to arrange them
back in the closet.

Still yes,

it is you –
I can’t forget how nights would creep
beneath window flesh, there were stains
of your laughter on the panes that summer.
I took my life
to the laundromat
but it came back yellow from creativity,
wood, and your name. I wanted to sing
with Dido about coins and goodbyes,
sing you away like a flat note
choked from my throat. But in the way you
hated her lyrics was the loneliness
of silence, silence when I wouldn’t have minded
if the seventh color had been a bit
shallow. My prism had dried, I thought. The pillow
fell ill with empathy.

Wrong!

My piece of heaven, then you –
turned the nights in. After a trial and a few earthquakes,
we could have been Japan again, I could have
gambled and won the rice of sanity
back.

If only
you didn’t nickname your new moon
a still yes.

It is sad like a winter afternoon
that everyone else
knows.