I can hear everything gone–
Your footprints stamped into my mouth like I swallowed a bottle of ink (I still can’t wash the taste of you leaving out of my throat.)
I’ve held this month in the pit of my stomach, I’ve tried to keep my skinned fingertips away from your sweet skin, but November is scraping the roof of my mouth and I can not swallow any more days,
I am sorry, I am not silver.
I am sorry, this is not what you wanted. I hope one day you find what you’re looking for.
These days lightning bugs seem empty,
and mornings are too quiet; I held a lightning bug between my thumbs to try and remember what it was about them that used to make me laugh
I held a cup of coffee against my chapped lips, but I knew that you didn’t come home last night
and it’s been hard for me to swallow anything more than;
I miss you.
I was standing at the finish line of eighteen,
nineteen crawling onto my skin, when I realized that absence tastes a lot like salt water,
that voices disappear after a while of not hearing them,
no matter how many times you replay them in your head, they just begin to sound like your own.
His hair smells like honey and his hands feel like coming home– but they can’t replace your moonlight arms.
They can’t wrap me tight enough to forget that poems don’t come back,
that poems don’t come home.

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Cory Garcia

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