Why Didn’t You Come Back?

Prescription for early-morning
fog leaving with his heart,
all scars revive with the chill.

Pain tired of waiting for answers,
tapping against our ruptured nerves
through his long fingers, my freckled

arms. Immediacy and I’m missing,
too. Retreat to mountainsides,
cool-minded waterfalls nestled

in the cracks, falling to nothing–
except clarity, no need to catch
or grip, to forget shrinking memories

we share, doesn’t matter anyways
to our bones or the white-washed
towns we cycle through at night

when shadows and alleys are at
their sharpest–This is the last
my voice will ask of the ghost, his

silence a separate omen all it’s own:
feeling our void build like the sunrise
stuck behind haze-covered hills.


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