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.)