I don't lie now, but
I said I didn't love you.
We'd never have stopped.
Facebook. You posted
on her birthday event wall,
"Making time at last."
We walked in blizzards
too, fleece hands held. The photos
are identical.
Crossing out plans with
you: more nostalgic than face,
voice, or poetry.
Phone calls. I still have
one of your voicemails. Mourning
is not optional.
Your hands have always
reminded me of birds, and
now I can't catch them.
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