I’ve stopped listening to your slow jam
of adult alternative voices. But you know
that’s not true. I can’t sleep unless you breathe
fresh air into my lungs.
I say Lakshmi Singh’s name in the shower
because I like the way it feels
imagining her quiet, enunciated disappointment.
I can’t see you, but I picture the softest sweaters
possible and unmarred hands wrapped around
kitten-centric coffee cups, as you talk of nations.
This is listener-supported love; it doesn’t waver,
even when you ask for money. Some Sundays,
I find myself screaming for you to speak up.
I understand this is a one-way street
from radio to ventricle, but I can’t help
imagining you waltzing through my door
wearing nothing but a tote bag and a smile.