I can only describe her in phrases that don't make sense
in times of night
She isn't real and never will be again.
She's dead. I'm not. Ironic.
She comes in waves
In claps of thunder
Her face will flash.
Blue and gray and dark and sunken. Dead. Me.
That's me staring back at me.
She's changed since last April
Last April her eyes were lampposts
Her collarbones were highways
I saw them,
They were there, but in fleeting moments
When I drove too slow down I-75, through my neighborhood with roads too narrow.
Her memory is written in the highway lines down the west coast of Florida and now I see her
in my window shades.
The scars across her thighs fill in the broken slats, carved in carefully by a boy too concerned about what they'll mean five years from now.
We look through the same window.
We match, for a moment,
But her arms are untouched.
We're so different, though when she digs her fingertips in my shoulder blade she reminds me
We were the same person.
For sixteen minutes last week she squeezed my wrist until it bled.
Threatening over and over again
She'll watch me flatline
Her tar pit eyes
Her bones pushing tight against her skin
That is not me.
She felt warmer than usual.
The cuffs of her jacket were tattered and soft
And her hair was blonde, pulled back in a loose bun.
She was gentle.
She took a knee on the cement that once was hers
And took my hands in her own.
"Only at night. I promise."
She watches me off at the top of the stairwell.
I recognized her hands.
They're my own.