Today you stuck to me.
Thumbing the water worn polaroid for memory,
the grooves of my flesh pressed forcefully
on your rosy cheek.
November 3rd. The day seemed still.
The clapper of your
father’s rusted lunchtime bell
traced patterns in my ear.
“Cover those yellow lines!” I always scolded.
A request soon forgotten, referring to the
painted dividers of flesh with the connecting
blue, briney bounding main in our backyard.
A tempting playground.
But on November 3rd,
the bell stopped dully clanking.
Bent over daisies, I turn, blankly
staring at your brother’s soaking
wet dark denim jeans.
He stood as lifeless as
a statue, with an arm outstretched
past the yellow lines.
I plunge my feet into the ground,
clawing at fresh grass to get to you.
You wouldn’t come back to me.
You couldn’t come back to me.
I let the waves brush against your body,
breathing air vigorously for your
departed soul as I stand
behind the yellow lines.
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