It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt
in seashells —
the final appearance of our love.
I
could have mourned it
as if it were more than the possibility of life
disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole
day, it took him to get home
it may be even more
miles than my body fluids travel in a week.
His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees
(always the knees, have built oceans on them)
He thinks he left, but it was I
who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices
he thinks he left, he
the snail
I have
caught up in years of needing to be ******
He thought he left, but white beaches
are still in my dresser —
it is what remains.
I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you"
but it would not be the
first time his **** did the work for him.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC
It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt
in seashells —
the final appearance of our love.
I
could have mourned it
as if it were more than the possibility of life
disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole
day, it took him to get home
it may be even more
miles than my body fluids travel in a week.
His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees
(always the knees, have built oceans on them)
He thinks he left, but it was I
who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices
he thinks he left, he
the snail
I have
caught up in years of needing to be ******
He thought he left, but white beaches
are still in my dresser —
it is what remains.
I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you"
but it would not be the
first time his **** did the work for him.
