Rebounds and Sunday Mornings

My hands
are not the same.
They are cracked
and blatent
and softness is amiss
beneath the calloused knuckles.
Ink from corrected tests
and broken poems
bleeds into my skin.
I stain the world
with words
and the world
brands me
with dirty memories
of walking away.
I pull
and yank
and wrench myself away
but I rebound
like a rubber band
and snap back,
back to everything
I wanted
and all those Sunday mornings
and pale blue afternoons
and midnight performances
of love gone right.
I am outside
of those moments, 
standing where
we stood.
I am ancient
in this waiting,
withering
in this absence.

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