After Pimone Triplett

This morning I sat awake trying
to unlearn your sounds. This time,
I’d vow to leave behind your metaphors, moments of
language and fault, the disjointed angles only
your looks can imprint on my chest. The sun rose
and gave me 7:00, then 8:00. I wished for the day’s
fleetingness, its ability to leave you behind after
only hours spent with it. I knew never was enough to show
you your degradation, all your own, when comparatives rushed
out from your throat: Or ever to remember
your silent paragraphs, my lilting for your breeze,
once natural. You held me. I sat awake.