You think that I’ve forgotten
That I’ve moved on

That I don’t lie awake at night remembering — 
all of it.

That I don’t have to recreate my canvas each day.

Smashing oils, pastels, chalk, with brushes, sponges, fingers…my hands painted and chalky, rough and exposed — and reaching for something that is no longer there.

I breathe, it’s quiet.

Paint has gathered around my cuticles, or maybe it’s nail polish.

Slinging my purse over my shoulder I reach inside for my keys. My fingers graze the corner of a warn coffee shop napkin bearing your name. A relic that’s as permanent a part of the interior as the lining it rests against. More than a relic it’s a treasure. A permanent part of my being.

Just like you.

Surrounded by steaming ruins

Draped in an ill-fitting wardrobe of shame, my shape now unrecognizable

My only accessory is awkwardness

Willing myself not to be seen, hunching in the light, straightening in the shadows

My beauty returns as sleep arrives along with images of you