Remember the last time you kissed him.
                           His hands unmovable mountains
                                  when they were first malleable
                                              and laced with stardust
Remember his eyes were the color of stone
So when you pick up pebbles at the beach
You know which ones to hold.

I look for traces of me
in the smoke stacks bursting
from your mouth,
                              in the bottom of empty wine bottles
                              and the vapors rising between sips.
I look for reflections of me
in the crystal
from around your neck,
                              in your blue-green eyes
                              and empty spider webs.
Some small chemical amount of me
must be left on you, somewhere
                              although your skin cells have shed
                              since we last met.
Your muscles must remember me
like whispers in your hair
hands touching in the dark
unfolding me from tree
when I thought I was queen.

This is growing up.

Don't be too harsh on yourself
when you get so ******
you can't see anything
but fireworks behind your eyes.
You are young,
                           and the stars burn just as bright
                           as they did last night.
The Earth moves,
                           just like you
Never in the same space as it was before
Never in the same mind as you were before.

This is not
                  sanity.
It is just learning to cope
                 with your demons.
Your monsters are your friends
and the pounds of flesh you have relinquished
have a way of growing back.
*Each is a battle you won when you weren't looking.

I worship your very bones
                  the wisdom in your teeth
    structure, refined
A fraction of the universe
in your own design
                       Reflection
like still water
         and the way
               it meditates
in quiet lotus

I want to clarify that
when I said I wish I could
share every thought with you,
I didn't mean that
I am not ashamed
of the tiny terrors
and transgressions
that trespass my thoughts,
but that I am finally willing
to be responsible for them.

I can remember
                   placing
my hand on your barrel chest.

A prayer to a God
that, maybe, I've never known
for the ability to be
                          soft.

I wish i could fold myself
into the sounds
                           that your tongue makes
and exist in the
        fabric of your skin,
                   all silk and porcelain.

Instead, I am the ringing in your ears.