Pain around her wrist,

the shackles form a number

8

like the glasses that framed his eyes,

like the snowman that melted too soon,

like trying to find metaphors

from what cannot be abstracted.

 

shackles bound too tight

etch a valley into her skin,

he is a blur between space and time,

the name that never rhymed,

a letter 8.

 

If you turn 8 sideways, infinity results,

but it never lasts forever.

laying down, he is negative infinity–

the rise and fall of his chest

extends to a past life

when she could hear his heartbeat,

count the moles on his neck,

feel the contures of his back.

when her soul felt alive,

and the high made falling

an eternity of salt.

 

goodbye.

 

history is not by the victor,

but rather the writer.

 

I did not win this war,

I only know how to remember it.