The times I try to write him down
as a poem
My fingers try to remember how to stop;
fabricate his hand in mine,
do nothing more.
Rather, smear writing,
try to call it
poetry;
scatter shards of soft skin
under baggy eyes,
and draw lines in the confetti--
We allow our toes to touch,
briefly.
Permissible necessities
allow us reminiscence,
only.
He is not a complete thought.
Abridge him to avoid details,
but have the audacity to attempt
at attaching him to singularities
atypical,
and unripe,
like:
The smell of his sweatshirt;
watered-down coffee,
let it linger,
but not the sharp curve of his collarbones;
carve him from the small of his back
then hide him.
Long and thin fingers
holding vertebrae together,
and the taste of salt in wide eyes;
trying to avoid confronting
conclusions,
but not the deep husk
in his voice-
gravel scrapes
from tripping: safely.
I cannot dream him whole,
yet.
A fragment to me,
rather, by me;
write him only
as vague metaphors,
wavering- I cannot
write more.
Denouement leaves him
as a work in progress:
uncertain.
incomplete.
1 Comment
Grace Hammond
Oh my god this is my life