i wonder if i can find you in the crumpled
edges of my coffee cover, or in the ridges
of your water-damaged watch. each breath
still tastes like the lemon drops you burrowed into the glove compartment,
left to fill stale air with decomposing
glucose, the breaking bonds of carbon sulfates.
you used my rib cage as a step ladder,
plied apart my fibulas
making wishbones that you cracked open
every night,
reattached to my knee sockets with the calcium
of morning milk.
i forgot to water your tomato plants yesterday, and this morning
i sunk my fingers into their bodies, peeling away jagged
edges, slip-sliding
over glutinous beads that remind me
of unborn fetuses.
i try to forget you.
(i can't.)