Sometimes you find that it is gone,
and you look
and you think
and you feel
that it is gone.

And, gone from it, you can
breathe again— as if soft hands
pressed tightly to a neck
were relieved— the breath
comes freely and often
but irritated skin rubs
red, inflamed memories
playing out

like diamonds on some
bruised necklace:
hurts less, less, less,
never fades.