WOUNDS

I wish that I couldn't remember the softness of your skin,

or the pressure of ten skeletal digits interlocked with mine.

Nostalgia will be the death of me;
they lied when they said time would heal these wounds.
I can try to convince myself that I never fell in love with you,
remind myself that you won't recognize my existence anymore,
but what use will it do?
These ghost from my past lay with me at night,
hanging like a weight on my back when I'm alone,
finding humor in my weakness at the memory of St. Louis and front porches.
When you gave me one last kiss, you left a knife buried in my back;
to this day I still hold it there as a reminder that you hurt me with goodbye.

S.B.