You can speak her name 

as many times as you like

but she will not hear you.

It does not matter if you send it through

the telephone wires that she has cut

with the same scissors that cut your hands

as you reached for her

It does not matter if you sing it out

to the tunes she hummed into your neck

in the space between sleep and waking

She is awake now.

She will not hear you.

It is hard to believe

as you count each time you licked her wounds

and every late night phone call becomes a penny

until the jars of them line all the windowsills in 

all the houses you have lived in;

it is hard to believe

that all this will not buy her back

I know how it hurts

How the end of each limb itches and aches

with the phantom of her

but she is not a metaphor for eternity

and time will erode you the way wind shapes mountains,

the way water shapes driftwood;

all the sharpness smoothed away.

The End

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