Jagged Edges

December 29, 2013
My ear has been tuned to your
voice: the exact frequency of hertz
at which you make the air vibrate,
the constant whine
with which the stretching of your
vocal chords complains,
the particular consonants dictated by the
shape of your tongue and the spacing
of your teeth--
all of which I wish
I no longer had memorized.

Your eyes no longer seem to sparkle,
but rather to glint;
and I want to hide from the reflection
of the light
because your corneas are suddenly
trick mirrors, and I don't know
what I'm supposed to see anymore
when photons bounce from your eyes
into mine and purportedly
show me something more
than wavelengths.

I felt it as soon as I read
your missive: something had broken
between us.
But I didn't count on the
jagged edges, the way the break
with you would come back to
slice me later, the way everything
about you would stick into me
and leave me needing to be bandaged up,
the way there would be
no bandages.

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