Bones

Fuzzy-fingered, she pulls up
old messages— an archeologist
searching for some kind of
hidden meaning or a code
she could not break. Maybe
now— when the dust has
settled and the light is
better— she will be able
to understand what happened.

Instead, flips through the
old notes, trying to figure
where the bones of her
being started to shape, and
whose fingerprints were there
that she might need to erase.

“What is the half-life of love?”
She was sure she’d read that
in a book somewhere— the
words not quite clear, yet
something clearly moving
through her soul already.

She stops, finally, takes
a breath, puts the notes
away and heaves a heavy
sigh, with breath like barley—
ready to be let go, renewed.

She looks deep within and
knows, suddenly, that
the only fingerprints on
her skeleton are hers,
slowly building, patching
healing, every time she
finds herself broken.

There is no erasing to be done.
There is just the smoothing
over of the places once cracked
now stronger than they were before.

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