Carved into the calendar of my mind
and every sinew of my muscle
are the days of late September.
There exist the memories of him and marks
of tears cried in silence and minds gone astray
of newspapers he ordered in secret and soiled shoes
of spam calls and spring colds
of musty brown rugs and unplugged headphones
of grapefruit chapstick and fizzing ginger beer
of full moons and orange construction paper
of how life once was and can always become.
I wish I could lure the memories
from every fissure of my brain
draw them into the light
and leave them to decay,
but I know they are as much a part of me
as my own two hands
as is he
and I fear what I am
without them,
without him.
So I have tried to gather those memories close to me,
and remember the blue packs of American Spirit cigarettes
long walks in darkened woods
boxes of new computers and phones
rebooting the television in silence
and dancing cartoon clowns and cats in bright pastels,
I nurse them sweetly in the palms of my heart,
and make them feast at my table.
I’ve tried to make friends with the enemies of my mind,
to exist in the marrow of fractured bones,
and swim in the warmth of their infections
until I have exhausted myself to sickness,
a sickness that will lay my body and mind
to rest.