Amnesia

It’s better you hold the knife:
delicate wound, touch of an artist.
I want to forget you– rather,
remember myself in pieces.
Scattered into flesh,
the body becomes a map
all rearranged.
Do not retrace
what you dismembered:
the memory is best left
confused, the sorrow
all forgotten.
In falling apart,
the pathway is unclear:
the motion of love
without a face–
your heart buried
recreating my own.

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