for her.

it's midnight and I'm writing love letters
on my skin to the woman who raised me. it's midnight
and every limb has a story. all
my collarbone remembers is the frantic
hurry of your footsteps when it broke under the weight
of gravity and mistaken desire to fly and my
broken pink umbrella, long-gone, remembers too. my elbows
remember the firm pull of your hands in the grocery
store. my cheeks remember your makeup and
my clumsy fingers dipping in like paint pots and my neck
remembers all your strands of pearls. I remember
when you were young again and wearing
red and holding cups of tea in hands
that didn't shake yet and I remember hands that knew how
to peel apples, curling skins like red ribbons over
the edge of the blade, confident
in motion, and I remember your voice and I remember
your songs and I remember.

it's midnight and the water is cold and I
am somewhere beyond feeling. but
my love letters are only ink and they are washing
away and I watch them swirl at my feet and I
want you to know that you're going to god with
my love and my love and my love and my love and all
my love letters say the same thing to the woman
who is leaving me behind: I
am remembering you.