I cannot—
not even a fraction
of the hallelujahs we shared
(our figures two waxing crescent moons
melting into linen) is unremembered.
Some days I rise feeling your phantom
limbs tangling mine, and I shake them off
(but not the sensation of being a trapped
bird in a burning tree). When I learned
I could not love you I started training
my mouth to form new words like
phantasm and reverie and hologram
(all of them synonyms for each other)
after realizing it took more than just
a firm pinch on the thigh to wake up
from the pipe dream of you.
How the body forgets. How the body
does not remember the umami taste
of flesh, our fluent speaking in tongues
(clashing like gongs in my nightmares)
I do not understand— but in my sleep
I remember peach fuzz and morning
breath and the hearth of you
how warm how weird how
delectably unholy and
there we are again
two astronomical bodies
orbiting a dead language

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