You crawl through the back door
and knock on the side of my cell phone.
I wake in the hive of mornings to
your voice, swooning security that
keeps these tiny feet grounded,
whether in folds of cotton, pinafore,
or six feet under.
You're in my old shoeboxes,
at the top of a fresh bowl of rice.
I find you at home in my shower curtains,
the backseat of the car and
in pockets of bubblewrap.
The breathless of laughter keeps
the world warmer, as air is preserved
and there's just more
room for us to breathe.
Empty spaces are only ever
filled with God and
monoxide.
