So many times I’ve found you
                 In the eyes of someone else.
In the hands that hold like a belt.
How can a memory never happen?

And while we’re still plastic fresh—
                                    Packaged, 
the first imprint is blood red.
   We hide love,
                   like the life of a woman. 
A mess, abundance, 
     why are we ashamed?

            It’s the duplicates that take from you.
Our habits outline like fingerprints. 
We lay hands all over each other—
                        again and again. Guilty, 
We leave everyone with strawberries.
We stamp out love like hickeys
                ready to mail. 
Our ripe ravages them and leaves
                   fading trails of fragile skin.
Love is a bruise we grow to bury better. 

These days I am a fragment
         all my attempts of contact, just ghosts
forming, then 
dissipating subtly; you’re left wondering
         If you recognize me at all.
Seems clumsy, love 
       a hazard younger eyes flout.