I want you to feel better:
the malleability of memory making grief so perplexing,
an utterly strange pause—
how is mourning possible when memory is contrived from
past plus desire?
I am missing being sure,
or what it felt like to weep and know exactly why.
Maybe memory has its own body, its own spell.
You watch it closely:
She is tall but she is loving,
I comb my hair until it breaks;
your freckles increase with summer.
An echo goes on indefinitely, I tell you.
Because there are so many ways to wait,
and even more ways to listen.
Perhaps, memory is what we can’t reach.