Do you still think of me?

Do you remember the blaze of my breath
pausing taut once more before yours?

No.

The day you told me, plucked up by a poor mans spine
shucked beneath your skin, I whimpered to behold
treacherous lips, last imprisoned by another.

A dry river of salt flowed static down my skin and you laughed.

Parked a pistol at my temple,
with rough fingers and parched breath frozen, indecision fraught.

But letting go was enough.

Sometimes, you endure resolute in my thoughts
like fingers wrapping again around this throat,
singing sorrow when, stupidly, I look too closely.

I cannot foresee time when thought of you
stops shattering these shards that remain.

And I hope you still think of me,
but what use is that.