Stared at curled toes
By the drain.
They weren’t rain drops.
They were tiny mirrors.
From the motion
Of my twitching wrist.
That complicated desires,
Spilled between the thinness
Of curled toes.
That’s how I remembered them.
Not as objects
Composed of an arched back.
Stiff as a board.
That’s what kept me company.
Skin so pail
I used it like paper.
Writing clever metaphors
Inside their wrinkles.
But when they left
They took the poetry with them.
I was alone.
I was alone.
That’s how they remember me.
A.j. Binash's Other Poems
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