flowing thoughts

There were letters I wrote you that I gave up sending, long before I stopped writing. I don't remember their contents but I can recall with absolute clarity, your name scrawled across the pages. I could never quite contain you to those messy sheets of black ink. I could not stop you from overtaking everything else. I wrote your name over and over–on scraps of paper, in books and on the back of my wrists. I carved it like sacred markings into trees and the tops of my thighs. Months went by and few scars have vanished but the sting has not left me. Sometimes when I read a, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it's not over. Like dyslexia in reverse. Say something to me. Quieten this silence of yours. Fill these empty spaces with your words, no matter how insignificant you claim them to be. I once tasted too much of the universe that lingered on your lips, consumed more than I planned of those woven around your words, and from the mom