Kaddish in the Dark

I mix up my lefts and my rights, and at the traffic stop, I become colorblind. The lights blend into an odious brown, tricking me. 

It's a good thing I don't drive. There was that one time you tried teaching me in Memphis at a random parking lot at night. You complained that my breaks were too abrupt, but I found it funny.

Your eyes used to catch my shadow. Every time I looked at you, I saw myself and I saw what you saw of me. We spent our moments seeing each other. Spilling over the creases of the moon as we chased each other throughout the night streets. 

It was beautiful because it felt like forever. 

I'm not tired anymore but my bones hurt from the weight of carrying my body. 

Sleep, Baby. There is only silence now; no light. No light. 

We don't bury our dead with flowers, we're scared of wilting them away with the next bloom. I wonder what lurks within your body. How much of your face is left laying there. How much of your bones. The cemetery hosts no grass. You are dusty and I cannot wipe you away. The body of nothing. No traces. No stains. 

I talk to you when I look at the walls, or the heaps of clothes I cannot manage to get rid of. Your face battles mine in the subway window; the sitting people all remind me of you. Quietly, you make your way back to me, until your memory passes. And then you move away from the seat: the next passing stranger that itches to let go.

On the train, I sit beside myself, wondering where the time went. The music that blasts comes from everywhere and I forget to think about you because of it. You croak out of my mouth every time I sing your memory. You spill like paint; you mark my skin. An everlasting tribute to your body. One touch too many. 

With every day, I lose sight of your face and the words to find you. There is only Kaddish, but I can't speak to you anymore. 

The lines that mark my feet are on fire, and you beckon me to stand. Your whispers are deafening; I hear your voice in my head. But no words, only sounds, barely grasping at anything. I pull away. My teeth hurt. My mouth tilts. No kisses. Only voices. 

The flowers are in full bloom now; the summertime always smells like laundry detergent. The scents wash the spring away, settling into the fruits of fall. And now the scraps I have left of you glue themselves to my skin like foamy sweat. It's your permanence. The one thing left of you that wafts through life. Your clothes. Your smell. The smile that burns into my memory like acid. The dent you left by my hips, my thighs. 

I want to be more than a vessel of your memory, but I want nothing more than to remember your name and pass it on in carts of stories. It helps me remember how much I love you. It also makes the pain settle into my pores. It's foggy, Baby. I can't see beyond you.