I catch glimpses
of you
in the rearview mirror,
in license plates,
in the creases
in my hands
as they grip
the steering wheel.
I look
into your eyes
set into other people’s faces
and find your fingers
in other people’s fists.
You live in distant laughter
heard down faraway hallways
and I discover your smile
in the lips of strangers.
All of them
are parts of you
and I wonder
if I will ever see
the real thing again
or if I am doomed
to search
for your features
in foreign faces.
In washed out ravines
and sunshiny beaches.
I wander through days
where all I hear
is your voice
from other people’s throats
and I think I must be crazy
to be imagining you in them,
seeing you in people
who are anything but you.
I wonder if you miss me
when you see your reflection
or license plates
covered in pine trees.
Is it as hard
to stop seeing me
as it was to delete me?
And do you picture my face
as you kiss her
or them
or whoever it is you kiss
these days?
Do you see me
in your hands
the way I feel you
in mine?
Or did you shut off
your heart
when you shut the door?
Are fragments of me
sifting through
your fingers?
Because pieces of you
stick to everything I see.

2 thoughts on “Stuck

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