you proclaim that every day has me :
engraved into the darkness of your eyelids,
pressing against the inside of your skull ;
that you can’t ever, not even for a second, forget
and i wonder if you are lying
because if that’s true,
then that means your weeks of silence
are made of intentional ignorance,
knowing that i have burning imprints of you :
trapped in my lungs,
making a staircase of my rib cage,
just out of place like a cool sweat in a heat wave.
my fingers are still cold and hands still shake at the idea
that you left the refrigerator open on purpose
because you had no intention of keeping me warm.