This will be the last thing I write about her.

The last poem that I put my head
into.

Because the storm is over,
I have gotten through the worst.

And now it is time to put a line through her.

Cross her off.

It's over.

I no longer see her in everyone I meet,
I no longer look for her in everyone new.

It's over.

I put a line in it.

A line through her face, she was just a phase.

Whatever.

A woman came in
and read me like a book.

Taking in each piece
of ink,
of scar,
of flesh,

that is stained.

She read me like a sapphic poem,
dissecting the inner meaning of;

each line,
each dollop,
each stroke.

She looked at me as if I were sheet music,

Deciphering
the vibrato,
the crescendos.

I bask in this newfound admiration.

Allowing her to peer into my soul,
and make sense of the marks
on my skin.

She loved a skeleton

flesh and bone, bone and flesh

she liked a skeletal version of me

with no hair.

But I loved her.

I loved her hair up and glasses on.

I tried to wear the earings she gave me

but they burn.

Between the glisten of tinsel,
the weight of the stocking.

Someone is crying,
and someone is knocking.

Mixed in with the raisins,
the cookies,
the milk.

One dressed in flannel
the other in silk.

Dressed in textiles and six feet under.

One
In the dirt.
And
One
Under the covers.

Tonight one child goes to sleep with hope.

And elsewhere a mother is trying to cope.

One is young, so fresh and alive.

One is grieving the death of their child.

So hug your loved ones close tonight.

Because somewhere,
someone
does not have
that right.

You can feel it in your throat.

Your Chest.

The feeling of wanting to scream,

but you can't

so you cry.

But I don't want to cry

because

I am strong.

I dream of the animal parade.

The one from the Teletubbies.

I dream of simple times.

When I would burn oil over a candle and it would smell like summer rain.

And it would smell like the first girl I loved.

Sometimes my own poems trigger a panic attack.

An attack from within.

It's because here,

time does not exist.

Nor does the vape,
the glass of wine,
the time.

Anxiety and panic attacks are trying to come for me.

I prevail.

I think what scares me the most is being forgotten.

But forgotten by her.

If she were to one day wake up and not recognize me,

I don't know if I would be able to go on.