In my memory you’ll always be
that beautiful girl in my art class, long hair and
big eyes like a watercolor painting
etched by the gods into a perfect little form—
A marble sculpture in my brain. I can’t
forget the smell of your shampoo;
The hair care aisle of Target is haunted now. I can’t
taste strawberry wine without thinking of your lips on mine,
my mouth on your breast,
your face on my *****,
your heart in my hand.
You were a shooting star to me, quick and beautiful but never meant to last.

I’d rather watch you
watch fireworks than
watch fireworks.

I have already
forgotten the way you used
to look at me, love.

You were a shooting
star to me. I loved you with
fleeting, burning haste.

I’ll show you my heart in small pieces,
small enough to fit on a microscope plate
under a 100 millimeter lens.
If you look close enough, twist the focus lens
wrap your fingers around the body and warm the cold plastic.
In between the molecules and blood,
you’ll see my microscopic hand in your microscopic hand.    
You’ll see my legs wrapped round yours in the middle of the night, like headphone cords.
You’ll see my flashlight under the covers at night, reading your favorite book, trying to decipher the sentences that structure your neurons, line your brain cells, and flow in your veins
You’ll see me, trying to tell my sister about you, struggling to find a phrase for the person who occupies significant other, lover, best friend, laser-tag partner, 2 am drinking buddy and 2 pm drinking buddy, passenger seat dj, and late-night-kissing-in-the-rain person.
You’ll see me calling you my person, the only person who can focus the microscope just right, turn the lens like a dj, and not get lost in the minutia.

They tell you about the good dreams,
The making pancakes with my husband at 2am dream.
The dancing in the kitchen in our jammies dream.
The getting my dream job dream.
The picking out curtains dream.

They didn’t mention the other dreams.
The laying in bed next to the love of my life trying to decide
if I should jump off a bridge or just swallow pills dream.
The having *** with the lights off bc I refuse to look at my own skin dream.
The waterproof mascara that doesn’t run when I cry at my desk dream.

I couldn’t call them nightmares.
A nightmare is unreal, uncanny, but
a dream is a reality that hasn’t fully formed yet
when the veil between life and dreams is thin.
That’s what I’m afraid of

I am not the hands
that held me. I am my own
hands, scars, and bruises.