Eight Years

One year ago
my life became unraveled.
I became a ghost
with a staggering heartbeat
in the midst of falling out of love
and directed into unknown waters
of careful and hollow embraces.
We were such friendly ghosts,
as if staring into the dark
with squinted vision,
fanning the invisible air
for only a hand to finger.
So many evenings
with my temple on a pillow to the left
Hers on her right,
as if we were drawing down the
thickest blinds of our bodies
to shut out the light.
The last week of our lives together,
one wouldn't have felt the bed
move its lonely body.
Our room became a room.
Our bodies became roommates
instead of lovers.
Eight years later,
breaking apart the dark from the light,
I know now we both shimmer like stars
without the confusing snag
of night weeping
for the light to come in.
Eight years
after the blinds have been pulled
down to black,
the sun peaks
like frosting on the Rocky Mountains.
Eight years it took us
to fight dark
only to come up as candles.