still I find to feel
my arms swing
my hands clamber over
as my fingertips hastily wrap round the letters of his name.
which ink refuses to write

until it forgets his face, though sees how my eyes shot rays
of iridescent blue
and feels how my stomach would indulge to engulf my heart
until it was shredded and pure.
erased and framed back into its place when it gave up.

those letters bleed through the paper and I toss it into fire
they age and crumble
ashes settle but blow.

and I find them on my palms,
which reminds me...