(A)counting What Became of Us

Originally published in issue eight of Straight Forward Poetry.
Photo Credit: Rachael Fowler

Goodbye is the only time one is too many.

So why do I beg the Night for my chance to say it?

 

When considering legs, two is the most satisfactory. 

Two fingers for drive-by peace signs.

 

I lie awake when ghosts frolic at three.

See-through, black shadow — I’ll take any form. Just come to me.

 

The fourth month of a year is cool showers and fools in love — unless you’re in Iraq.

Then it’s hot sand and foolish death.

 

At stage five, the final cycle of reincarnation, souls are old.

How much longer until my soul finds peace?

 

Johnny Cash track six.

Remember me, will you?

 

It took you seven damn years to ask me to marry you.

It felt lucky like getting the last red skittle in the bag.

 

I found the back of your brunette head in eighth grade English class.

I can’t stop writing about it.

 

If you multiply a number by nine, then add the remaining digits, it always comes back to nine.

If you and I were a number, it would be nine.

 

Zero is nothing like the space where you once slept.

Refer back to the loneliest number.

 

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