The Song They Wrote
I contort your words
inside out until
they are mangled.
I can’t use syllables,
sound siphoned.
We forget
our skin clinging
to the mattress dragged
out on the fire escape.
We forget
the weight
of our names as
a slivered sun dies
between wisps of hair
descending in the river.
We forget
how it is enough to race
our palms over walls in
empty apartments.
But the song they wrote,
without noticing
our laughter fell,
without appreciating
we stand
under the same sun
at the same time,
without knowing
we strangle vowels too,
drives us to claw
at our yesterdays
decaying into memory.