limb death

when my phone died, i hadn't backed up data
for four years. 
at the shop off the highway
we loaded the old memory onto
the new phone. it took me back
to 2018 when we were still talking.
you were waiting to come inside my dorm.
where was i? maybe pacing.
maybe eating moths. did you love me then?
i am sorry but i do not remember
if i loved you. i do remember the night
we spent standing in the parking lot
in the rain. i imagined being struck
by lightning & turning into a god.
you told me about your pet hissing cockroaches.
i told you about the jar 
of my own teeth i kept in the closet.
we had shoe box lives. carrying fingers 
& elbows in plastic bags 
from one season to another. 
i think we tried to not make promises.
it was the summer before i left
for grad school. forgive me but i forget
where you said you were going.
a trip to the moon? a sawmill 
to remove your feet & replace them
with hooves. i almost text you
as if we are still in a different world. 
as if you are still outside
of my dorm waiting to be let in.
instead, i pause & delete the conversation.
it is like losing a limb 
all over again. burying a hand
& waiting for another to grow back.
do you still have our messages? do you
still have the thumb i gave you? 
come inside. let's be fists if not wings.