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by Brynn Dizack

every day,
you are still everywhere.

instead of sleeping, i am willing the last vestiges of you to stay:
the cherries i bought in chocorua, still in my fridge,
the last fumes of the tank of gas that got me home on tuesday morning.
you, touching the small of my back,
your head on my shoulder.

you were solemn and sure on that morning.
you kept saying, goodbye. goodbye
so final, so immoveable, so heavy.

i won’t tell you where
i’ve gone.

i won’t tell you what i carry:
the memory of your dearth of sharp edges;
or how i most certainly lied to myself that such a
soft and tender entity couldn’t split me cleanly open
from end to end.

i miss you.
i miss the daydream of
you, waking up early to shovel before i even know i’m stuck.
you take care of the practical. i’ll make up for logistical failings
with the deepest well of love you’ll ever drink from.

the only light i need is the light that touches you.
what good is illumination if you’re not in the frame?
is the space a slow relief?
i understand you can’t tell me. it terrifies me.
it all terrifies me. writer of love stories. clarity of voice.



Author's Note: e.k.

Posted on 09/09/2019
Copyright © 2022 Brynn Dizack

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