Neuroma

Where
there were words, once.
each right syl­la­ble grown
into a song heap, now just
a lighter square on con­crete
where, flood-soaked, the jew­eled ink 
ran that day

   an am­pu­tated decade

the mind as­sumes
all is still there
where you left it
no va­cancy, no
ab­sence, just
mus­cle mem­ory from
an im­placa­ble cor­tex

   do not per­mit
   bro­ken parts to for­get
   whole­ness.

Looking for fa­mil­iar sym­bols
in in­vis­i­ble ink. Writing
again with the off hand.

Yes, even now
my heart still 
skips like adren­a­line stones 
each time I’m thrown across 
her wake
each unan­swered chip of wa­ter
ask­ing
where 
it all went. 

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