slow removal

Inhale, all our swallowed anniversaries turn to sawdust in my throat.

I think of your fingers molding memories into plastic bags, pushing them down my throat with the calm determination of holding an infant under water.

When I breathe, my chest rattles with your body.

This is a slow removal, dismantling us piece by piece.

On those rare days I feel brave enough to desecrate our mausoleum, I inject myself with pure indifference before severing the limbs of our future.

I blindfold myself before burying them.

I found your necklace at your throat, held tight between stiff fingers.

I kept its bronze circle at arms length, cautiously reveling in the last piece of our beauty.

We drove together, a disappointed ghost trailing our exhaust, your halo scratching my arm with every turn.

I drew circles in the air with my finger, making promises to no one but myself.

Divination escapes me, I need to know the answers to all my masochistic questions.

You hang like a chandelier over my head, held by two fraying black threads,

Torn from my wrist in a desperate attempt to keep from shattering again.