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.