why does moving on from you
feel like moving on from me
why do I sometimes catch your eyes
staring back at me from the mirror
like you're there
like you're right there
am I seeing the bits I left behind?
a slow sip of apple juice
a happy food dance
the curve of my hip
where your hands fit so well
the pinkie I promised you
the jazz that we listened to
a glance
a verse
every letter I wrote that was
never returned.
I wonder what pocket you keep them in.
do you pull them out when no one's looking
do you trace my words with your fingertips
the same way you lightly grazed my lips
with your smile
even when those teeth turned sharp
I kept your letters in the pocket
closest to my heart.
I tried to leave you through the fun-house door
but I picked up parts of you on the way out
I swiped them
held them like playing cards up to my chest
the warm buzz of your phone-voice in my ear
the soft smell of your stolen t-shirt
your bright eyes
your piano hands
a slow bite of pb and j
a slow dance in a stairwell
muscle memories
of tripping over my words, my self, my worth
as I tried to keep up with your beautiful mind
of floured hands
of opening the oven
of catching the door with my heel
of putting my hands in your pockets
of tracing your freckles as you squirmed
of 'good morning, hon'
of 'bon nuit ma petit ami'
of you
I sometimes catch your eyes
staring back at me from the mirror
because you're there
you're right there
or at least
the part of you that was left behind
the part of you that lingers in the
fingerprints left behind
as you modeled
my clay
as you shaped me
the same way I traced that trapezoid on your back
even as you squirmed
why does holding onto me
still feel like holding onto you
