PTSD

it is 2 a.m. ugly,

beautiful is sleeping.

and body parts are now religion.

a holy cult

where the angels won’t shut up

about our weeping.

all over the road,

your chalk outline,

limb-scattered vessel,

a temporary home.

i bring it to the station

resurrect you

night into night.

trace the white scribbled shape

into a body.

in my room

the ghosts unfold me,

caress my uniform

before putting it on.

and when the angels do not see us,

wings undressed; they leave.

we are the frowns of your absence,

ghosts holding up our clothes.