I.
I am the word in your chest
you can't scrap from bone.
I am home with the lights low
and doors latched shut.

II.
I am the lettering of your name
etched electric in the brain.
I am a whisper of crab grass
with dandelion breath.

III.
At night (        ) distant stars,
a soft glow from years past.
You are the dreamer in bed
who wakes in the womb of amnesia.

IV.
I am reflection in glass
and water and stone.
You are (
            ) crack of dry dirt.

V.
These moments(
          ) written years (
    
                  ) before your birth.

VI.
(        ) are the yellow bruise (
          )
I (
         ) the skin (                )

VII.
(               ) light (
) does not travel.
(                                  ) it remembers
all we have forgotten.