On Building Her a Shrine

She'll ask you someday to give her something
to remember you by, when apologies cling
to the roof of your mouths and under your
tongues,

and you'll build her a shrine
that smells of century-old books and dry

tea leaves - and ask her not to wait
for tomorrows in half-lit hallways
or find her days in coffee cups.

You'll tell her that love sometimes
feels like monday mornings and clocks
will always tick; half past dead, half
past leaving, half
past hope

and she'll have to move on,
she has to move on.