As a child of three I asked my father how far away Mars was,
and he replied that it was as far away as I wanted it to be.
Some days I miss his wet hair, how it felt like seaweed on my skin
after a shower. But then we’re always missing things
about the ones we love.
Today I stare at my reflection for forty-five minutes straight
until I have it memorized and can look away
without forgetting my own face,
much the same way
in which the surface of a lake remembers the shadows
of the trees that lie upon it.
Yesterday the weight of missing you hurt so much
that I had to double over to keep myself from summoning
your ghost out of the attic.
I was the child who always stuck her fingers in sockets
just to see if her heart was flammable,
if it would light up like a cigarette, like the candles in a seance,
like the soft mouths of lovers after a night of sex.
It never did.
But sometimes even the chemist has to stop trying
to create the next element
once he’s discovered that no amount of aluminum or sodium in the world
can ever erase the scars on his wrists.