You are holding a small glass horse
in your hands, turning the figurine
over and over,
breaking off each jagged limb
and letting the pieces
fall at your feet,
joining the sea of coquina shells
and dead wasps.
On the bed there is a pillow
that smells like seawater
and if I press my ear close enough
to it, I can still feel the brush of
your eyelashes closing.
Love has been hiding in this room,
in the stuffing of the toy elephants
in the dark corners under the bed
in the echo of the windchime in the closet
in the lines of your shaking palms,
but neither of us are allowed to look for her—
On the wall there is still the faint
trace of your handwriting,
the messy scrawl
where you once told me
that I say the most beautiful things without
ever opening my mouth.
We have both tried to burn the words away
but the smoke singed them into our lungs
and with every inhale
I can still feel them smolder.