The last text message you sent me said you still
masturbate to my yearbook picture. I still listen
to the mixtape you made me. I want to be encapsulated
in your smile like a better form of currency,
my thighs still remember how you felt between them
and sometimes we used to have sex during your
anxiety attacks just because my hands on your back
made you feel calmer than any medication.
Mayflies kiss every night then reproduce in twice
as much time, a thousand snowflakes put together
can make up an avalanche. I know your phone number
by heart; I don’t have to write it on my palm anymore.
I only wish I could swallow your laugh like absinthe
or drink water that carries the shape of your voice.
Maybe a few years from now I’ll make a time capsule,
and even the sound of your sadness
will be stored inside it.