goodbye somebody, i think i still love you
your image drops from memory
and i throw down my hands
to catch it
because i won’t be able to
see it again
once it shatters.
and i should remember,
at least
for one more night,
the face that drank
orange juice only from california
and the hair filled with breeze
when you stood on that buckled road
in the texas panhandle.
but my collection of memories is growing smaller.
i don’t feel the pleasure in eating anymore
and i’m not even sure why we do it.
tonight everything seems clear
and i know my way upstairs.
but tomorrow may pass
and i’ll not have visited
the bathroom at all.
i’ll clean myself up
but the time will come
when i won’t even do that.
this is a terrible thing
that pulls the leaves off of me
and strips the bark from what’s left.
the nurses remind me it’s like that in winter.
but
regardless of the season,
icebergs
spin and tumble
below the surface.