It’s the little things I miss. Curling into her at night, her weight in my arms, placing my palm on the top of her head. Sharing a portion of chips. Walking up the steep hill to her house, looking over the low houses to the broad and open sky. I even miss her teeth. I don’t miss the strain, the arguments, the gaps between our minds that we knew we’d never fill, the shuddering of our worlds not quite meeting. But I do miss her.
Filling your silence is like
animating bones,
like troweling dusty roads
in the wind.
All of my memories, like stones
weigh heavy on me now,
they’ve fractured time like shattered water,
stand in line to face me
like ornaments on a mantelpiece.
the truth about september
