Last night I thought I kissed the loneliness from out your belly button. I thought I did, but later you sat up, all bones and restless hands, and told me  there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo.

I never know what to say to these things. “It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.” “Please don’t go away again.”

Sometimes you are gone for days at a time and it is all I can do not to call the police, file a missing person’s report, even though you are right there, still sleeping next to me in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders.

Except in this case I am the intruder and you are already locked up so tight that no one could possibly jimmy their way in.

Last night I thought I gave you a reason not to be so sad when I held your body like a high note and we both trembled from the effort.

Some people, though, are sad against all reason, all sensibility, all love. I know better now. I know what to say to the things you admit to me in the dark, all bones and restless hands.