fidget.

with you, i was still,
exhausted by five summers
of dragging my bones
here and there,
where you wanted to go,
ten spots in one dirty city,
the place we'd never leave.
and now, i fidget--
restless, i grip at him
to not be alone in my wake,
because i want to be there,
no, here,
or anywhere that would relieve me
of this constant itch,
spots i can't reach,
his bed or anyone else's,
where i can sleep and feel
as dead as i did with you.