you left a bruise on my forearm
pressed in by a thick thumb and index

used to joke about my fragile limbs
how easily you could break me

“tell me when it hurts”
you used to say,

the burn of gripped knuckles
holding soft flesh
insides my thigh

"enough to leave a mark?"
i never checked afterword.

all the air that knocked me down
came from the deflated balloons
of your lips

popped with
the same thorn stemmed flower
you plucked for me
after our first funeral

left it on my windowsill
watched it die
then tapped it to my wall

a reminder
something can be as beautiful
living
as it is
dead

one day
i ripped the tape from the wall
because your ashes needed to be burned
and spread


because i didn’t miss you anymore