Trees are being kept busy with waving.
I tie bundles of letters I didn't have the heart
to send you, tie them with thin ribbon and hide
them high on a shelf. I sleep on my stomach
and wake up sore, like I've washed up on a beach
somewhere, my skin sunburnt my elbows scarred.
I pray every day for the moon to erase your face
from my mind, but still light pools at the foot
of the bed and my mind has memorized
your phone number without me telling it to.
There are so many things I want to say, but I
fold them, envelope them, address them, hide them
up on that shelf, in the closet where we carved
our names on the door jamb. I wake up
scuff my heels against the floor, go on being starved.