What They Don’t Remember

What they don’t remember are the

Names, the faces, the touch of

Wind, the burn of flesh on flesh,

The stretch and pull of moving

While encased within a skin.

Muscles and movements,

Memories and miles, these

Are things that they don’t

Remember, but they wish with all of

Their not-beating heavy-in-their-chest

Hearts, like fists unclenching in

Chambers like large fish bowls,

That they could reach up,

Palm flat, fingers working

At the air, and grab down

Their lover from the

Constant earth upstairs–

A name, an address, a phone number,

And a message.



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