157.

look at what I have left myself
some transparent retinal burn, a copy of your cornflower eyes
pressed half against my memory or lost to it
and using your name as a bookmark

and how can I hold you lightly
when I never held you, only waited
for a swig of strawberry cider across the table
(something to keep my fingers from itching for yours)
or a fluster of blood in my cheeks at your grin

I am painting wings on your back
and forgetting that you are neither angel
nor bird of prey

and forgetting the precise shade
of your hair, your teeth
I only ever saw them once, and now
I have left myself with only screens to smoke
illusory reminiscence and nothing to sleep beside

but if I sought your skin and sewed our hands together
if I found you tonight, and fleshed out the blurs in my recollection
with the solidness of your hips and elbows
would we hum together
or fall away

perhaps you are at your best in hindsight
perhaps I should let you stay there