I keep showing up on
your doorstep when you’re
not home

I try to thread our web of
memories through a
needle that’s too small

I keep gazing
through gaps in the
cape you’ve thrown over
your shoulders so I
can’t touch you again

I laugh so
often but I can’t see
myself crying for anything
but you

I try to redraw our fading
photograph on so many different
kinds of paper until
my fingers are raw and
bleeding

I wake at the
exact minutes I remember
something happening, like
11:19.05, the almost magic in the
water that night

I almost hold your
flaws higher than
your perfections, but then
I can’t remember either of
them, just the
way you looked
at me

I keep
forgetting that
your address has changed when I
want to send
you letters and
spoonfuls of time

I nurse my bad
habits because I
don’t know how
to give them away

I keep
forgetting that
you don’t own me anymore