You can find my memories of you
tucked behind my occipital nerve,
intertwined with veins like wrapping

vines, like a pulse crawling down
my inner forearm when I think
of blurry walks home. I’ll let you

cut through to clear them away,
stainless steel to cornea, spilling out
the thoughts I dismiss drowned with the fluid.

Don’t worry, it’ll be home
resting in your palm.
Just think of me often.
Don’t leave it on the porch.