A person I used to know

Freshly shaved, sun-bronzed kneecaps touched each other

From opposite ends of pretzeled calves and thighs.

Toenails sparkled with fresh paint.

Your trail of salt slipped off a round, rosy cheek

Crashed onto my leg and fell in to the carpet –

A dark pink, almost red, plush that bore witness

To all we could only tell each other.

When I used to look in the mirror,

I would see your eyes – deep brown,

Eager to share the world they knew,

The world you knew.

I had your deep brown and you had my hazel.

I knew every inch of you, every outside and inside.

Even the unspokens had beds in my ears.

I was comfortable.

But now in that shiny glass,

I don’t know deep brown.

I can only find hazel.

I search my inside for your outside

But can only find the already spokens.

My kneecaps don’t know the touch of yours

And no ruler can remeasure the inches of you I’ve lost.

My outsides are itching from the screaming of my insides.

My eye-sockets don’t like hazel, they yearn for deep brown.

My hairs are standing –

My insides won’t stop churning, screaming, yearning.

They itch for deep brown, soft bronzed kneecaps, wet glimmering toenails

And that salty moisture right before it disappears into dark pink plush.