Perennials

March 5, 2018

His fingers across the clay ridges
Of my valleys, because he
Likes the way it sounds.
§
I’ve been showing him where I hide
My pockets of time, in the cavities
Of my back molars.
§
I’ve been painting my ribs
Blue to match the spokes of
The tires on the bike
He learned to ride as a boy.
§
I’ve been tying ribbons
From my eyelashes, to cover wallpaper
Roses that do not wilt.
§
I’ve been picking pieces of
Old flowers from my teeth
And throwing them in a jar
For a story to tell later.
§
I’ve been folding up the
Skin around my ankles to have
A crease to remember him by.

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