The small of your back was a candle
flame
the place where my eyes went in the
darkness and I
can't remember the color of your eyes
but
I can remember the sound of your voice
when I drove you home,
talking about cartoon cities and sea
monsters. I
wonder if your Irish girl holds onto
you
the same way I used to.
You talked about shaving your beard
again, said
it made you look too old,
said the only pro was that it kept you
warm.
I started knitting you a scarf for
Christmas, realized
I'd never have the balls to send it.
It's hidden under my bed with all the
letters I never finished.
I wonder if you still have that
dreamcatcher,
the one I made for you when a part of
you
was leaving me like the tide
I never got to watch with you.
I wonder
if I will ever kiss you again. I wonder
if it matters.
