are pithy, one word
dangling on the page,
dripping with sweet
intention. In sunlight we

don't engage. And she's
been with me in Paris, in cafes
and museums, though she's not
left her zip code. And I read

her memes, watercolors running
down my screen. I haven't seen
the sun on her face. But I've seen
her children growing up on my

page. And I cannot erase
years of plastered smiles
like cut out paper dolls. I pasted
on my walls. I stich all

her words together and write
'a poem. But I cannot hear
sounds of laughter or bouncing
echoes after, teetering from

her cherry lips. I trip on my
phone, sitting dark and cold
in my purse, as I nurse my lime
and *****. I'll type her another

line, to tell her all is fine. Inside
I'm breaking in shards of splintered
conversation and plastered smiles,
a bookmark of a life wrapped in pixels tight.