You mailed yourself a box of grass from the summer. You try to sleep through the rot and stink of it; your body shaped like a semicolon, waiting for something that has already come and gone — that has left you running on, alone, like a thought you can only have in the dark just before sleep that seeps into your dreams. You wanted to know the ache of it.
Your mother’s old bones tell you to come in out of the rain, but you’ve seen the way she touches the pressed flowers that your father has no memory of buying. You think it’s funny, sometimes, the things you keep when you cannot keep love. The things we hold onto when we cannot hold each other.
In your memory, I am nothing but words. Maybe a flash of face, like a girl spinning in a photograph. You caught my laugh, like a sound in a tin can that echoes down the string that used to connect our windows.
There is only silence now.