Saudade, you say, that which remains.
You want so many things but you hate talking to yourself about it. Makes you feel
like a child again, too small to eat yourself bigger. Inside your bedroom years before, you dreamt
of desire, of possessing. The meat and neck in your hands, like water in a cup pouring out, pouring back in
rinse. Rinse that moment away. Remember elsewhere. Remember differently.
Know you dreamt of a scene, an untouchable withoutness,
the aftermath of sex
where he and you laid half-awake beside each other underneath a thin white blanket
that didn't cover both your legs.
Lie to yourself this is all you remember about it. The in-between is yanked like
vertebrae from your anatomy. Let's say it never happened
and you don't remember walking or dying.
(You were nine.
That one bone in your body
that isn't really yours
shakes shamefully in the minutes after.)
You think of that vulnerability as a moment he touches you with a finger
and goes through you like a ghost. You're a ghost. A terrible one, humanly. It's a secret