The Last Poem

I remember the first time you held out your hand to me,

And how I thought my fingers would crumble

We bought coke, but no popcorn

And were too busy willing our palms not to sweat, to actually watch the movie

But I still catch my breath

Whenever that scene comes on

And I wonder if your hand ever feels as empty as my ribcage does,

When I realize that someone in my building uses the same soap to wash their clothes that you did

And that my terrace is a catacomb where I see dead bodies hang from wooden pegs

The scent of drying clothes digging up memories of how I buried my face in your chest like cold feet in warm sand

I remember when I lay my head on your stomach

And counted your breath to match my heartbeat

And how it felt against my cheek when I made you laugh

I wonder if you saw me memorize you

I remember the last time you held out your hand to me

And how we didn't know it would be the last

I think my fingers would crumble if they hover too long over the delete button on that picture

So I leave it up

I still don't know when I'll write

The last poem that is about you

But words about how you left still come just a little bit easier to me

Now I only remember the first three digits of your phone number

But every single step of the way to your doorstep

The first and only time I came to your house,

We made a mess of old photo albums

And of reasons to ever be apart again

All over your living room floor

And I remember catching a reflection of me laughing in the window behind you

And the realisation of how happy I could be was a jump scare

The next day I told you

That no place without you would ever feel like home again

But you were too busy catching elevators to hotel rooms where strange women lay