Timothy Liu

Without You
November 11, 2012 Liu Timothy

Without You

 

I was doing just fine, a job, a home,

a life—a salt shaker on the table

in some museum not visited in years

 

Didn’t know that I was waiting

 

Didn’t know if I was even awake

 

Without you I am the diorama’s

glassed-in air, the dew drop

that never falls in a time-lapse photo

 

Of all the empty tables in my favorite

cafe, why did you have to seat yourself

next to mine, taking away a view

 

I’ll never get back?

 

Without you I’m a tray of coffee mugs

the waitress spills in slow motion

on the night she got fired

 

“Very expensive coffee” my mother

said for the rest of her life

 

My mother who sleeps in an urn

 

Without you I am a lie a child tells

for the very first time

 

Without you I touch myself and feel

my hand grow alien and strange

 

Who doesn’t feel curious muscles

fingering their own holes

 

Without you I am the sound

of a tinkling cymbal and empty brass

 

Love whomever, then return

 

For without you, I’d have forgotten

the many doors through which

the world disappears—

Timothy Liu’s latest book is Luminous Debris: New & Selected Leger- demain. He lives in Manhattan and Woodstock, NY. timothyliu.net