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Traveling Song

I'm reading them again. The
ones I couldn't burn. Their
edges are browned and curled, rippled
under the weight of
tears we couldn't cry and
hands too heavy to hold--dreams
that we just hadn't grown into yet,
they hung down over our hands. They
tell a story,
nice and linear but broken and senseless
they're swirling, curving chains of
"I'm sorry"
"I love you"
"forgive me"
we say the same words until
they become meaningless and paper thin,
I'm just tattooing them on the inside
of your ear drums in the hopes
you won't forget me--but you do.

Transient. That's what he calls it
when he ghosts through my arms one
week at a time, when
he's nothing but the empty coloring book
version of himself, leaving me
with handfulls of crayons and not even some numbers
to paint by. No wonder we remember him
so differently.
I hope I was that for you,
a sinking feeling that remained in your stomach,
hung in the back of your throat near your tonsils,
but it's alright if I didn't.
I still know where all your birthmarks are, I
still know where you buried them--

the ones you couldn't burn.

~ViewerDiscretionsAdvised