Chlorophyll Breaks Down

lost your keys again
stumbling back and forth
between the last time you told
your mom you love her and how
many sleeping pills you took last night

you look in the fridge just in case, sometimes
you put them there, accidently, as your
mind wanders to the time in seventh
grade you wore your belt too tight
the imprints on your skin looked
like a map, but you never
understood cartography

I said the crease
in your left hip looked
like the road you took home from high
school with all the trees, when the leaves
changed in late September you would take a
different road because it reminded you of when
your grandfather died

your right hip read more like a blot
test and I tried to decide between
calling it a butterfly or a beetle
I pinched your skin between my thumb
and forefinger hoping for you to see that
your body isn’t a destination

a destination you will never reach
if you don’t find your keys
at 6 A.M. in your kitchen
stumbling back and forth
between the last time you saw
them and the last time you held me

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