Contact

Every time I try to hold
your blue-eyed gaze
in my hands,
I drop it—
my arms are too skinny
to hold the weight.

What makes it so heavy?
Was it the first boy
who traced your curves with his fingers
and a stupid, satisfied smile?
Or all the papers
glued to your mom’s fridge?

And you said,
“There isn’t a high score table
etched on the cemetery gates.

Work out those muscles,
and the next time I throw my gaze
maybe you can catch it.”

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