Open

Open is (Her trace of mourning into wrinkled sheets.
Her voice, pronouncing love, her sister’s name, loss.
Space behind my tongue, salty and gaping.

I want to say, “I’m sorry.”
[I won’t. I know it would make her regret her
Open.] A wound.

Open can be a color between pink and brown, the color her lips
Are in this light. Looking at them now, I forget she is happy
now and then.
Think to cradle her, exchange my skin for what it protects.

I need to match her open. So she doesn’t stand there,
Being watched. Tell her something
So she sees me) raw.