I tried to punch
A whole hole through your chest
rip and tear at what was left of
the lines that drew themselves across your skin-
while the nib of your pen still stained upon mine.
You enveloped me
and I became scrunched and crushed
beneath the weight of you,
the idea of you,
the thin, uncreased sheet off of which you fell
out of paper
out of me.
I folded you
so that you only fit into my palm,
pressed you to the back of my mind
to my spine.
To be forgotten, lay dormant in regret
Until something catches the dog-eared corner
and you turn yourself over again.
I got a paper cut the other day
in that strange veil of skin between index and thumb.
It was small,
and the pain travelled rapidly
from the cut- to my palm
and my wrist
and my vein
found the pulsing absence of you, only to write it out again.