It’s the things that I remember at midnight that will kill me.
I hope I forget the curve of your under eye,
When you’ve barely slept.
I hope I don’t turn over in the night;
Dreaming, how I heard your voice
Pulling wire between my ears,
Tuning over and over.
I hope I crawl inside that cardboard box
At the back of your mind so well,
And collect the lacework of spiders,
Mixed in with the dust.
I hope I carry my heart to the grave,
And never try letting her attach herself to people like stickers which peel off-
Eventually, turning into faded stamps
Which never grace letters.
I hope I remember not to pack a part of me
In your suitcase,
Pushed under the bed,
With shiny new locks.
I hope I pick myself up like a wooden doll,
Arms held up by string,
Succumbing to God’s puppetry,
How I step step step across the floor,
With nothing but a wandering eye,
Which falls on the grass,
Where the shade never casts the silhouette of a dandelion.
I hope you forget me.