Your heart is the size of your fist and
the contours of your skeleton
With the breath between your ribs the
retrospect in space that bends time backwards.
I counted the days of the month within the
tide of my fist,
Before I knew they could be used for hitting.
When the space between your thighs was
meant for sitting
And not measured by the negative words spoken between them,
I told you that life was made of touches – of the space available to feel
Until the knuckles brushed my face
And dust inhabited the crannies.
For now, all I can remember is the bruise
long sunk back under my skin
And the thin layer of memories coating
the surface
Of something I can no longer touch.
And maybe, I do not want to.