When they ask me
what it was about you
that made me forget
the songs my grandfather sang
in his cracked leather chair,
I will not speak
of long walks down a darkened hallway,
or the woman in the mirror
tearing at her blindfold.
I will not tell
how the ocean sounded
in winter, as it splintered
against the rocky shoreline.
No, I will say only
that I was a desert then,
and you smelled of rain.
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