The first time I was certain I’d heard the voice of God was at your house.
It didn’t feel like your house.

Our relationship relented against its finality
while I learned to love myself.

We sat on the pea green sofa in-
I guess- your living room.
You talked
of work
and of people.

There was emptiness to fill,
so we moved to the bed we used to share.
Your new room. My old lamp.
Sheets I’d only glanced once before but can never forget.

Three times, was it?
The last one, we tenderly left the planet together.
We returned and said little,
holding each other, our bodies warm and damp,
on that bed
under the glow of my old lamp.

We sleep better apart but I chose to stay after a month of good rest.

Each time I woke that night to a voice,
like mine but not quite:
“You fill your own cup now, remember?”

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