When I think of you now,
I think of you in abstract.
You are not scratched into my skin,
vivid and ******.
You are vague,
a crude outline
on a crumpled sketch.
There will come a time
when I will struggle to recall
the way
you rolled your cigarette,
you mixed your drink,
you said my name
like a liturgy
and a damnation,
all at once.