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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