Five Days

I take 5 days to get over tragedies.
On day one: I pull out all the strings I’ve attached to you.
Feelings filled with helium. Lifted.
It’s hard to breathe in the clouds so I tie myself to the ground.
On day two: I teach my tongue new words so it stops writing your name all over my mouth. My lips tell me that saying your name came with separation anxiety.
Sometimes saying it too fast so they never have to part for too long and sometimes saying it slowly so it lasts a little longer.
On day three: I spend it trying to convince my eyes to stop searching for you in rooms I walk into. I ask them why do they become paralyzed when they find you?
Staring at you until you finally look back because you move me even in the most subtle ways.
On the fourth day: I stay in the shower until I’ve erased my skin’s memory of yours. Selective Amnesia. I forget the shower and remember your skin. Melting into each other, sculpturing, shaping masterpieces.
On the fifth day: I write my hands love letters, I tell them to stop writing to a love that won’t write back.
So i bury my feelings for you.
But at the grave site appeared the most beautiful garden I have ever seen.
So my feelings continue to grow.
Beautifully. And I will make bouquets of apologies out of them for myself.

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