seeing how it comes on a regular schedule.
It snatches the edges of my mind and demands
I think of you. These thoughts come now with
tears, sometimes torrential, sometimes slow,
but always, always with the salty taste of
memories and what I've lost, what you've lost
even if you won't admit it to yourself. I wonder,
as I sob into my hands, if you ever have these
moments--or if you've mastered your ducts
as much as you've mastered your emotions--
your will to not feel a thing for me after years
of tender touch and tone. I wonder, as salt
collects on my eyelashes, as I try to remind
myself that fried green tomatoes are only
comfort food to me, that I am not an answer
to some riddle in your mind. I am just the
last bit of residue to be swept out the door
with the dirt, a regular kind of cleaning,
I suppose. I wonder if you are surprised
by a sudden onset of feelings, the phantom
press of fingers on your chest and the way
we always brushed our lips before we kissed.
Grief brings these tormenting memories
to me, like elves busy for Christmas, and
I want nothing but sleep.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 18, 2013
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