it is three twenty-one ante meridian and
i cannot
forget
us.

give me cracks in my fingertips,
bruises on my thighs,
a sore throat and a sigh.
anything to prove that you were here, once,
and that you're coming back.
i miss the way you feel in my lungs.
i miss the fire that licks at my skin,
hot, hungry,
and i miss the swoop in my stomach
easy like a roller coaster,
lasting like death.
i miss permanence in transience and
how you felt in my arms and
the way words used to tumble out and
being able to begrudge you this.