There is a silhouette of a castle left somewhere in the sheets, where ivy
has yet to sprawl over and crack stones in a vise that grows less
gentle. Fingers that are already forgetting how to hold now hold me
down, tracing the thread count, reaching and fumbling and clawing for memories
that come in flashes. Denim knees worn thin and tops of thighs rubbed pale. Frayed
canvas shoes tied together with fraying laces. A two-lane drive and too-hormonal drives
and almighty driving forces that drove our bodies into a mattress.
Star fragments had exploded in glowing colors, foreign to me before, and,
I realize coming down, soon to be foreign again. It leaves an ache in my spine, my hips,
crawling up, up, up until it latches onto something deep in my chest. It wails
if I touch it, a bitter ghost searching for a warm body to lie in that is just
out of reach.