Her eyes resemble a fading filmstrip left in the bottom drawer of our wardrobe next to a lilac dress I’ve outgrown and the rest of unrecognizable memories.
Her bones poke like a yellow flower barrette on my scalp, a sharp pencil on a tender wound, a hand of a neglected child burying anguish on the skin of another.
Her mouth has grown poems too soft for my hands to hold; i try to lie with them, a blister beneath her tongue where your name now resides and washes away the sweet perils of a love like ours,
her chest, now its graveyard that she no longer visits. It has turned into a museum of the things she’s built with you.
Limbs, hands, fingers — All delicate things I wish I had — was instead repel finality in ways ugly, in ways desperate, in ways this poem can never soften. But some things are made for ending, Some bodies, for leaving, Some hearts, for breaking Some grief, for feeling in all the other places and in all the other parts where she once laid her kisses: now just quiet, empty skin aching, under the colder half of October’s distant breath.
10/01 My anatomy still learns to forget about the love it swore to remember.