We had an energetic exchange
and his energy has intertwined with my own
and his children have sunken into my skin
and his lips are imprinted on my own.
I feel as if I have to discard myself in order to discard him
from me.
We made art with our bodies
and I can't tell you how artistic it was that he curves gently to the left
and his hands felt as if they were made only to grab my throat.
I loved every inch of his body
and I have it memorized so well
I could sketch it out.
He was art to me.
In every kiss was a song;
in every goodbye, a melancholy tear.
At night, I can remember the way his chaliced hands traced my figure
and how comforted I felt when his muscular arms hugged my limbs.
I can still taste him
and it's a taste that even Burnett's can rid me of.
He was mine;
every piece and square centimeter had my name on it,
but just as quickly as we fell in love,
my name was wiped clean by
someone
else.