A Love in Search of Itself

I’m eating my microwave tikka masala
with the hollow ticking of the clock
and a plastic fork, so this feels less like home,
so this feels less like me
in my body, but not wanting to be
in my body.
In your body, you are on a dock under aqua light in Nicaragua.
You are humming your favorite part of a Kygo song
to a girl with licorice braids. You are burning
hickory tan lines into all the spots
I used to cover uncover and kiss.
You are throwing your breath
into laughter so hard you forget the metallic sadness
that made you leave— the point.
You forget the point
and loosen every bad thing like water
until even I slide off of your tongue for good.
I’ll let you go. You came to me half-gone anyways,
looking at me as if I were a passport stamp.
My memory of you will come slower and slower
until I can’t remember the strong bridge of your nose
or the sound of speaking your name.
In this way, you dissolve into me.
Your messages and pictures, artificial, filtered
keep rushing through time zones
to illuminate my phone.
Your echo always finds the way home
but the rest of you
never will.


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