fiberglass bits embedded
in the tractionless soles of your
sun bleached,
barely green,
high tops
glimmer like tiffany + co.
rings bought for high maintenance,
self-absorbed, city-slickin'
prisses.
your exhale would go unnoticed by anyone not trained in
Emery Sigh-wah-nese.
yet years have made me fluent
in the language that is soon to be more
dead to me than
Sanskrit.
shards will no longer leave a
trail of hazardous, irritating breadcrumbs for me to follow
blindly.
Gretl 2 will emerge from a highrise,
demanding your
jagged edges be filed and finessed
into a
more palpable brilliance.
And I'll reminisce on how
your glass thread foud itself
into my lungs, a constant
reminder of your
existence
before those slivers you left became
a 100 faceted lie.