I swore there was a map on your hands,
streets on your palms, north and south
touching your fingertips, your scarred
wrists. I wanted to shuffle through life
reading your map, but you clenched your
fists tightly: part fear, the other
foolish bravery. To fight through
everything blindfolded and smiling.
He was your oxygen, and he gave you
the infection. Everynight you would
spit on his photograph and then
apologize with hot salty tears. There
really was no consoling you. Sometimes
I dug my fingers into my wrists to see
what it feels like to always be aware
of a sharp dull pain, keeping your eyes
open, keeping your mouth trembling.
It was a never ending loop. Your death, and
my armour I wore to close up the outside
world. I had no maps, you weren't even scattered
among the stars, like you promised. Your
lips were cracking, but you had sworn it.
And now there was dust on my fingertips,
the very last memory of you.