I miss your body like it is my body.
Rippled milk thighs torn away like meat.
Tiny hands severed, leaving stumps to clamor in the dark.
Eyes quietly removed.
Viscera pooled on the carpet, detached from the rest of me.
I miss your body like it is not my body.
A sunken ship, veiled even in your nakedness.
A satellite falling through atmosphere until it is dust.
Post-thunderstorm sky, thick with static and absence.
A handwritten letter that never arrives.
I miss your body like it is your body.
Your spine a fenced-off train track,
form locomotive, chugging toward a vanishing point.
A muscled map I cannot read.
The silent slicing of an empty chest.