why is it that you only remember kissing?

or fumbling with plastic buttons in dim hallways, or folding his pants alongside your dresses
or laughing, or heading home to a bed you both could call yours.
why is it that the nights you spend crying in the next room- why does that fade?
you remain always dusty. god, all those days and months seperated by borders and waters you spent rationing these precious packages of recollection, closing your eyes and watching from a distance, as a younger, softer you rested her head on a pair of shoulders that were always there, a pair of shoulders that grew arms to hold you with, and a mouth to kiss you with, and fingers that would trace you and taste you and smudge you. now you know everything about love with nothing to show for it. now the safest place is nowhere near you.

you remember reaching out in the middle of the night, you remember why you quit smoking, you remember how he tasted, how he pulled you closer under the covers on cold sunday mornings. you would make room now when you would never make room before. now that it's too late, now that you are not fine. you remember kissing.

Her laughter has

worked its way

in between my heartbeats

to write feelings is painting
language upon the fabric of time
and space to see your face’s
true expression without alteration
in mirrors or shiny surfaces
get lost in the mirror when you’re
seeing shapes dance—watch your skin
melt and your eyes bulge; fall into
yourself and emerge anew
encapsulate all the good you can do
time-released splendor
swimming through your system
giving temporary wisdom yet
exhausting vision—seeing the world
as it was intended to be seen
vibrant, saturated—nothing unclean
and being crushed by gravity
when your kaleidoscope filter fades
remember the sensations and
wear them as security