Here where I am, the stars cluster like grapes.

This is why the dust from the shooting ones graces the sky

with the colors of wine.

When I was a child, my mother used to read me the backs

of Band-Aid boxes instead of lullabies or fairytales before bed.

Even now, every dream still feels like a wound;

maybe that’s why whenever we slept together

I woke up with stitches in my side.

Here where I am, all the psychologists claim

twins separated at birth will still be able to recognize

their lost siblings’ voices ten years later

amid a crowd of millions.

I’d still recognize your cells hidden inside my body

years later during my own autopsy.

I’d rise from the table just to run my fingers

through your DNA like beads one last time.

All our best & worst dates involved standing on the Golden Gate Bridge

and watching the ghosts of 27 people jump to death

from the railing, wishing we could save them.

Now when I dream of you pressing your mouth

to my collarbone I rise from bed out of habit,

unbundling my nerves, unsheathing them,

waiting, like all 27 ghosts teetering on the edge of the bridge,

to disappear.