there is something missing. it's wednesday.
a memory. it was always a wednesday. in your arms, routine, soft, derailment.
it's been a week. my heart ripping open again, quietly, in staccato.
my shakes are back, small earthquakes beneath my skin.
my palms scratched, still bleeding, still raw,
this time, not for you. just for the ache. just for the leaving.
grief knows no boundaries
it presses against the edges of sleep, of hunger,
gnawing at the seams of identity, asking who are you now that love has gone quiet?
i was told once that i was a child of the universe,
no less than the bees and the stars,
and i hold onto that like prayer, like proof,
because the stars still burn, even when they die.
combustion feels familiar, meteors, my heart,
the violence of light falling through sky.
i live in a violent body.
ripping open every time i find love.
trained to survive on scraps, to need only drops,
and when i finally gulped,
when i drank from you like it would last,
my heart, greedy thing, had to rip.
now i sit with the stitches.
threaded with longing, pulled tight with memory.
