I filled my gas tank to 33 dollars and 33 cents and told you it was for you because it was your favorite number. I organized our belongings (white t-shirts—books—toothbrushes— baby, this is where we keep our sweaters) as if using the word “our” would embed myself into what you call home. I bought flowers from a homeless man because you are a botany major. I wanted to bring them to you, wilting and loveless, and show you how I can nurture something worth saving. There is a five-finger scar above my breast. There is an orchestra on my neck shaped like your pulse from all the nights you held me the way you only hold something slipping. There are 6 states pressed like stubborn flowers between the last time I kissed you and today, but you still feel like a sound caught in my throat.
Sierra DeMulder, “During the Month it Took You to Leave Me” from The Bones Below
(via sierrademulder)
