My frame aches in all the places that
you’ve never touched. In every birthmark
that has yet to be kissed by the bronze of
your skin in moonlight, in every bend of
my bones that hasn’t had the privilege of
cradling you to sleep, in every fiber of my
muscles that have fused whimpers within
the pronunciation of your name,
I feel you everywhere.
Two days ago, I ran into a glimpse of
your hair color by the train stop and
misplaced my athlete’s pace; I forgot
how I’d conditioned myself to forget you.
Last night, I drank to find numbness
but only unearthed slurred poetry and
a constellation that linked heartache and
migraine beneath a star-crossed smile.
I am every inch sore from loving you
and you’ve never even slipped bare
beneath my fingertips. But see, my hands—
I think my hands are the most tortured
part of my body because they can’t stop
writing to someone who is not here.
I still feel you everywhere,
just everywhere except here.
I feel you in the morning.
You’re sliding down my vertebrae
grasping at the edges of my bones
as if you finally figured out I was
something worth holding onto.
Please just go. Please,
do not sit at the base of my spine
and list every reason why you think
I deserve this ache. I blew out my
back in self-defense after you left.
Pushed too hard too soon; it’s funny
how none of the techniques I practiced
could protect me without being in your
name. Now my disc is fragile, and broken,
unable to play the songs we sang when
it was one, when we were whole. Yet
the silence is softer
with me than you ever were.