Time wraps around every inch of my surface,
bringing warmth and ease to some parts and an awful sting to others.
I thought I lost you in the face of all that twisting, turning and temptation,
to another, more convenient someone who’s no longer an understudy.
I thought I’d love you less someday soon and be rid of you,
be rid of the smell in my closet
from your old jumper,
I could never bring myself to wash it.
Or be rid of the idea that this is authored,
to be 400 pages and no more,
or filmed for two hours and no less,
and be assured that coming soon
was a neatly knotted end.
And yet each new day brings old reminders,
small things almost lost in an ever-present, ever-tender goodbye,
small things easily forgotten across the span of a year,
but sharp enough to carve the moment in which they appear,
and call on my tears from their hiding place,
and relight the fire beneath a dying memory,
and stutter and still and burn,
and burn well into the night.
enter the discussion: