I finally see why I can't forget you.
I finally see why I can't remember you.
The sky is blue and always
The sky is falling and always
in bits, like rain, and you never
it's not enough
to wet my memory, the sparse
of who you
or who I was, or who
The space I've kept you stored in is
and the space you held when you were
and every time I lost
you had a spare.
But now the locks are changed and you
I try hard to recall each first we shared.
I check my skin for signs of cleaving.
from where you carved our scène à faire.
I am trying to
find the girl I was or the man I thought
and my vision
bends toward the end.
There are track marks not on my heart
but on my
muddied, sullying the framework of my
so that I have to wonder if
I was ever sane.
You are like a dream I think I might
if my eyes
so I've saved you in some upper recess
of the brain where you might slide back
into view in dark of night.
Because I could never see you in the day
and I traded sight for feel,
for trace of flesh.
And I thought you had pierced me with
your name but like scarlet henna, it's
fast fading. Like the taste,
too, of you. Carbonated. Flat. Deflated
words are all you speak without
my breath. Still, I hear you humming
somewhere behind me,
reminding me of life,
I ever vied for.
Did I dare to stare into your eyes,
endeavoring to find
Did they dance or dart or glitter or give
any hint at all
Did they endear me, the girl who wanted
only something real?
Did they caress my needs, undress defenses?
Did your hands ever
really touch me? Did you only tuck me in
Did our bodies form a pair or did
I starve in singleness of purpose beneath
Do you know now
what I know?
Do I know now what you knew then?
Do you know?
Did you know?
Did I? Is there anything to know? Did
I expect too much? Too little?
Give me back my knowledge. Give me
back the girl I was because what I'm left
with is just a prickling like hives when I
try to scrub the dirt away.
An invisible, tingling illness in
my nerves because how does one begin
to suffer an imaginary loss?
How does one grieve a ghost?
blue and always
and I am beholden to the pieces left behind.
To bits like hail that strike like
the place I stand and I collect them
to remember you. I treasure
them like rare antiques and I polish
them in your memory and then they
melt, and I forget.
The Sunday Whirl