Therapy

He talks about her in therapy

Leftover feelings scratch throats

Apologies slosh around

He writes a letter she’ll never read.

Between the lines

There isn’t room for anything but excuses.

Kindly indoors

A lover lays in benign bedsheets

Her gentle curves burn into retinas.

Raindrops and teardrops are natural bedfellows

Immaculate imperfections

Touch the ends of her hair.

Quaking bones

Meandering lines of debris

Ghost pixels of unreconciled souls

Lost in books and dreams and things they will never do.

Holding every whisper.

You can only bring what you can no longer carry.