90

It's your hands I miss
most.

When I got there,
they were already
cold
but pliable.
Still
not stone.

I lifted them to my lips.
Breathed on them.
As though I could
somehow
breathe
the life you had given me
back
into them.


It didn't work.


No,
wait.

They are
not
what I miss
Most.

They are just what I miss
Most
Today.



How I wish you had
allowed
that polished
shell
to be
turned
to ash.


Then I could have mixed
bits
of you with ink and had you
driven
into my skin.


So that
Now

I could look at my foot
and see your eye,

at my arm
and see your toes

at my hand
and see your
fingers.


So that I could
carry
your body in mine
as you carried
mine
in yours.

Almost.
Almost.

 

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