Trace

Your fingers are like
razor blades and little
yellow pencils with a
number two burned
into the top, eraser
shavings and pieces
of skin sticking
to your hands.

You told me that
love was like a
lithograph, wrinkles
lining every edge,
your adhesive dripping
down my legs.

Did you know that
I still keep the paper
in my bedroom, running
my hands across it until
I cannot feel it anymore,
until I cannot feel you
anymore, trying to find
an “I love you” in the
goosebumps of an
eavesdropping wall
that refuses to say
anything?

(In the dark, I can still
feel your shadow touching me,
still feel your breath whispering
into my skin, still hold your silhouette
and taste my skin sticking
to your palms.)