From when I used to write.

The
Collector

Those tiny tragedies that
accumulate

overnight on your skin, bruises
embossed,

scabs you don?t remember
hurting

for:

he
collects them, you know.

The commas you
always neglect to put,

the ellipse that extends
a thought

unnecessarily, a parenthesis you left
without

a
close:

he tends them like
flowers.

The runs in your
stockings.

That bra with one hook
missing.

Here you are from three years
ago,

anticipating stretch marks and
love.

Here you are in
pigtails,

surrounded by balloons and
rain.

Where you are now, he has yet to
gather.

He has parts of
you

from before you knew
him.

He saves what you
leave,

takes what you have
forgotten.

How can he not watch over
them?

You always tell yourself to be
careful,

but the stains of sleep on your
pillow

describe a map he can
follow.