My darling ache-machine,

the record-player skips
in that loop-looped little chime of not-quite-love,
or not-quite-over,
like it knew me once in a better shirt
and worse lighting
lyrics that mock the shape of missing,
the way a mouth swallows back a name it used to borrow

On the sill—

bonebutton (cracked),
grapes of glass (4),
& the sun like citrus pulp

lemonlight bleeding through sheer-washed curtains

the thinnest drapery known to womanhood

my mouth is full
with aftertaste
and
needlethread lulls

a confusion that alphabetizes itself

I am kept in hash-marks,
some call it bad timing
I call it déjà vu with bruises

palimpsest
that’s what I am

overwritten—
me on me on me