153.

I am reminded of you in the pit in my stomach
in my cigarette cravings and in pretending to be half-asleep
in the sound of second glances and missed opportunities
in cramping legs and in held breath

I am reminded of you in the shake in my fingers
in coffee grinds and backwards caps
in the gray and green of rain and the black of 5 AM
in waiting to be kissed and in avoidance

all I have left are reminders under my fingernails
kicking back dust into smoke from the evenings when I told you
"I swear I'll quit buying packs, just after this last one"
because I was so nervous to show you my wrists, my throat
knowing you had never brought me knives before, but
I thought there was a first time for everything

so I trembled and smoked and apologized
and you just smiled and stayed silent
swaying with your hands in your pockets

I spent every moment split in two, half ankle-deep in cement
and half putty-melting toward you
cursing my crossed legs and knowing
that nothing was left between us but yellow light illuminating
the nicotine we exhaled, and we sat in that standstill for months

now I am reminded of you in the creak in my bones
in opening clenched fists only to find them empty
in the crescendo, and in cutting the music off
before the song is over