A Collaboration Between Anna Rozwadowska & Heath ዟ

Bree Karpavage

I only recall the breath of your outgoing, 
breeze through the very best of my skin, 
a cool perforation, 
a silent, prolonged kiss 
somewhere in the dips of my body.

Casually caressing the once-shared rhythms,
trailing the ghostly scent of the intimately familiar
behind a vague sense of touch-faded photographs,
a memory gone somewhat strange now.

I dip, deep into my ambitions, 
they have become murky and turbulent,
digging, digging into the trenches where I lay, 
on the cold floor arms stretched wide, 
waiting for the arrival of grandeur.

Waiting for the kiss of something held once,
grasping in helpless recall, the feel of it slipping,
sandlike, through fingers gone numb at the prospect — 
held too tightly; not tight enough?

On the cold floor, arms stretched wide,
waiting for the brush of a soft breath,
faintly lingering like arrival on my flesh enmeshed, 
in the fabric of me, my fluid bubbles in the intimacy.

Like a phantom limb, you touch me,
and I feel it yet through the skin you knew too much of,
woven too easily to unthread you from this fabric
without pulling loose bits of myself, along.

A necessary sacrifice.
A tribute to what was.
A memory of shared sighs. 
An effigy of goodbye.

There is significance in the energy
in both our fusion and our fission,
an impression indelible, if singular,
abandoned for different theories 
leaving only that mark which cannot be erased.

You and me, larger than we, 
forces combined in efficacy,
hence the power of love, life, 
the seclusion of the self in the breed
humanity erases memories as it speeds through time,

space moves and collects debris, 
according to our brightest,
leaving only curious marks behind.

Clockwork, orange, eyes split open wide, 
merciless in backward clarity,
they guide us in our undertaking — 
oh, yes, you were breathtaking,
but I could not see beyond the illusion,
separation blinding me into confusion,
but there is a past,
pared from the present at last.

I know the two of us were one at one time,
a partial history in the making,
perhaps to be repeated in the memory of another
leaving different marks,
scratches on the surface.