come & go - Kay Thayer

i dream in lips and faces: 

her body haunts like snow. 

i grip the rubber steering wheel and 

my body is wracked with shivers. there is something rotten inside my chest: something with hands, 

with fingers that coil around my ribs. 

it is using them as rungs, to climb out of the lining of my stomach right up to the hollow of my throat. 

the weight of absence freezes against my tongue, 

and makes it hard to speak. 

what would i say anyway? there is only myself 

and the open road. 

it spreads itself out in front of me; the oncoming 

flurry mimics the static in my head. 

it is only just november, the first snowfall of the year. 

i press on the gas. vermont’s mountains unfold beneath the tires. the gravel crackles and gives. 

the earth is a body we have forgotten how to touch. 

as the snow falls, her curves disappear. i am reminded of august. 

she had braced herself against my back, when she got up to leave. her hands were boiling, burning hot. 

months later, i am still sensitive from her 

wandering fingertips.