You will remember me reciting poetry between our acts of making love. You will remember the traces of my fingerprints trembling on your temple, my mouth cloistered across your name. You will hear, again and again, my rapid breathing round your neck and my battered voice consuming the space between you and me.
The long walks, my verses, the place I used to occupy, your hair strands perishing on my palm and my disappearing warmth, they will forever remind you of the endless times and everything we are breathing somewhere underneath your propped pillow and creased blanket.
Between your fingers will wrap the ways you have read me like Braille and the countless ways I have responded fluently. They will live in your head, feed in your memory, tear your flesh asunder. They will annihilate you.
They will break your heart.
Say goodbye to Keats, Gaiman, Bukowski, Eliot, Woolf, Plath and to the thousand years I could have made you immortal and love you like sickness and its cure together. Say goodbye to the smell of the verses I have exhaled on your skin, in a locked room, to our glittering kisses and shards of hearts strewn and dying on your bed sheet. I will take the next station Southbound, with Hemingway, and will dissolve with the clouds and swallow the stars alive.
Say goodbye to me and go on with your ******* ***** and endure the fact that she will never ever write a poem for you because she can’t and you have lost me forever.
*Remember that your muffled hair,
In this broken world,
Is one of the most beautiful things I have ever beheld
But be wary of my books.
There were constellations between the pages
Which tomorrow,
I will tear apart, one by one
And stitch in the shape of legendary airplanes that one day,
As we stand face to face
I will crush on your chest
And they will explode
And dismember you.