I don’t write poems as often these days

Mostly because I’m not as sad. I guess that’s a good thing

But some nights I lay in bed, my sheets familiar against my skin

And I remember what it was like to be an atomic bomb

My fingers numb from holding open my own eyes,

As if they were a book trying desperately to close

The goosebumps on my legs shiver against the ocean of linen

Then I’m paralyzed again

And I wonder if it’s coincidence that our bodies are so capable of preserving pain

Or if we need to be reminded of our holes

The breeze they let in

I’m grateful for mine

Though I wish you hadn’t left so many for me to befriend

I know them by name now

And I’ve told them to forget yours

Since I’ll never know how