Dust
       

It seems we've left skin
in each other's lungs. I should have

looked under your bed skirt
for my wallet, but how

could credit cards compare
to the sneeze after we've parted?

Gone and still you make me
reach for a tissue—still my palms

turn circles in the red
breakwater of your heartbeat.

I want to tell you, I have nothing
but respect for your ribcage

now that we both know
it's not big enough to hold us.

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Copyright © 2011 Michael Meyerhofer All rights reserved
from Damnatio Memoriae
Brick Road Poetry Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission