There are things that I want
that you can no longer offer. Time,

mostly.  You tendered it once, slipped
it into my waiting palms

like a tissue. My fingers didn’t know
what to do with that

delicate whiteness, fragile
like the edge of a dream. And now,

what can I do with this
sudden emptiness? The ghost

in your eyes still whispers promises
I know you can’t make. Would it be enough

to stitch them in colorful ribbons
and thread them through my hair?

Or will my wrists always ache
with the quiet pulse of memory?