SPRINGBOARD

Have we not seen the end
of lovers leaving?
Loss in the form of letters, tucked beneath 
pillows without head prints?
Have we not mended 
the fissures running mute 
beneath the surface of 
perfect skin?

The sun unfolds silent, 
urging this decay in motion
as your fingerprints reappear 
like 
echoes.
Fossils of forgiveness.

What has been done once
will be accomplished 
three times over.
The space for pain is splitting
in two.  Do not 
dare breathe, in spite 
of this sucking surge.  
We arch our
backs in silence, mold the
moon with naked hands.  Steal the last 
of fallen snowflakes
with the tips 
of our tainted tongues.

-- Kelly Cahill