You punctuate
my past
with open parentheses
and misused commas
that symbolize
your choices
left unmade,
The grammar
of love and
loss and
lingers in thick,
swirling air
stuck between
periods and
quotation marks.
Words made of paper
cover pages of paper
with your name
etched on top
like a monolith
of forgotten lines
and sentiments
left unsaid.
Those unbreakable rules
of language
that stop me
from shouting
your name
into existence
remind me that
I can write dictionaries
describing the shade
of your eyes
and the plane
of your cheek
but I know
you will only ever leave me
with words muted
by ellipses,
by strikethroughs
that attempt
to placate your loss.

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