Fragments

Words upon words upon words upon

Rain. Soaking through trees and tar,
grimy cars and construction sites where
cement and sand swirl in an endless vortex,
the evening rises like smoke around my arms
and droplets the size of my fist thunder past traffic.

I taste you like a metaphor on my tongue,
Feel the dust of you on my skin.

The shadow of a city, the bruise of a life,
the thump-thumping of nostalgia against
closed doors and the carnival of memory.

In my hair, I wrapped my childhood. In my
arms, I wrapped you. In my trunks, I tucked
letters and rocks and tokens and broken nights,
catching snippets of song in butterfly nets and
hanging them over my bed. I watched your voice
as you slept. I watched myself sleep.

If all I have are fragments,
I won't be ashamed of them. I will find
stories to tie them up in, plot lines that
flutter and attempt to escape me.