Where
there were words, once.
each right syllable grown
into a song heap, now just
a lighter square on concrete
where, flood-soaked, the jeweled ink
ran that day
an amputated decade
the mind assumes
all is still there
where you left it
no vacancy, no
absence, just
muscle memory from
an implacable cortex
do not permit
broken parts to forget
wholeness.
Looking for familiar symbols
in invisible ink. Writing
again with the off hand.
Yes, even now
my heart still
skips like adrenaline stones
each time I'm thrown across
her wake
each unanswered chip of water
asking
where
it all went.