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Iceberg spines and mouthfuls of constellations

You don’t remember what her mouth tasted like the night she left bite marks across the moon and empty promises in your throat
No you don’t remember what her perfume smelled like
the night she called you by your brothers name,
the kites under her skin,
pulling
her under
You don’t remember
the first time she told you that your hands reminded her of the color blue.
As your mouth filled with blood and all the words you never said,
the ocean filling your bones just as you could have sworn
that you were empty.
You don’t remember the way her spine felt like icebergs, or how her hands lead you to putting all your pieces back together,
handing you the red ties as the monsters screamed to stop;
no, you don’t remember.
But I feel it all in my chest–
the way I still hear your voice as it muffled under the night sky,
“Come home.”
 
I feel it all on the tips of my fingers, I tried to hand it back to you
so gently,
but it all came pouring out in mouthfuls of constellations
 
I swear I tried to keep my stars away from you,
 
I swear I tried my dear;
I swear I tried.

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