I have ink stained fingertips
where your lips use to be.
Memory has seeped into my bones
and crept up the length of my arm;
cramps that resembles an ice cube on the tip of your tongue
August, in the park.
My body remains youthful, but my hands
resemble an old woman
brittle beneath the surface from knowledge,
passion, lust greed.
I have created worlds from these hands,
baring children from my palm.
I write and bleed black on the page
in desperation, to release you from me.
Club soda and paint thinner can’t remove these stains.
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