if there are rocks in my bedsheets,
they’re yours. look at the moon,
you say, your face a small bright
screen. so i leave my book open-
mouthed on the bed, let my bare feet carry
me down the stairs, out onto the driveway,
only to see the sky scraped clean.
the stars sparse, mocking me
with their dim blink.
i climb back into the covers
with tiny gravel-shaped skulls
lining my soles,
wondering how many more times
you’ll make me search for something
that isn’t there.