secrets never die.
they live on
in the cracks between doors,
in the blue cup you always used,
in the you-shaped depression
of your favorite chair.
why
do guilt and regret
never leave,
inhabiting the gray space
before sleeping
and the otherwise soft breath
upon waking,
when perfect memory
like the texture of your face,
the chocolate of your voice,
and most cruelly
the sun-warmed rock of your hand
slip out of my mind
like clouds leave the sky
on the wind?
