I found your fingerprints
on my skin
and I wondered
how long
they’d been there,
why soap
and time
hadn’t washed me clean
of your touch,
your memory,
the pieces of you
still clinging
to my hands.
So I listened
for a sign
of your vanishing
but I only heard
your voice
on my heart.
I stopped
in mid-step
and waited
for dissipation
of these echoes
you molded
with your leaving,
but shaking
my fingers
didn’t shake you loose
and I’m holding smoke
that once felt like hands
instead of hands
that smelled like smoke.
And instead
of writing me letters,
you write to rock stars
while I drown
in mountains
of my own bloody words
and wait
for your voice
to be nothing more
than a memory.


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