my body has become a map
of nights i'd rather not recall
i can't tell you how often i've envisioned
guiding your fingertips along the latitude and longitude,
pointing out the coordinates i'd just plotted-
"remember when you told me i ruined your life?
     or when you told me about all the pills you'd swallowed?
          or when you told me you'd never be speaking to me again?"
but as your skin brushed against mine
we'd come across paths more tangled than others, and i'd say
"remember when you told me you loved me?
     or when you told me i was beautiful?
          or when you told me you'd give me the world?"
and you'd get angry when i couldn't explain my own work

now my masterpiece is decaying
and so are my memories of you

sometimes i envision seeing you again
maybe days or weeks or years from now
and when you ask me how i'm doing
i'll guide your fingertips along the (almost) blank canvas
and tell you i've given up cartography