I only want to remember
the birch you sliced
to pieces, the white steam bath
and the salt,
the mornings we built
the island of your bed
into a nest,
how the feeling
we would one day end
percolated us
into moths dizzied by light,
drunk on the sweetness
we’d both kept
in our mouths for weeks.

I don’t want to remember
the time you told me
you loved me
and then walked out,
or how
now I know exactly
where my ghost of you lives
beneath my sternum
and how it rattles,
a dropped glass jar
spilling pomegranate seeds,
in the wind.