This is mine to remember.
Ash carapace settled on every jut of bone. I see your outline there. I can’t blink. You rest now by the side of the road in a trash bag covered with frost. Left this way, nameless. Whisper one of the stories to me. Tell me your mother once drove you two neighborhoods away with the box of kittens warm on your lap. Told you to leave them on the corner under the Ruggles sign. Years later, it would be a dog and a field in Goochland. Comprehension denied. Return to your seat wearing her blood stained underwear. The elastic woman kind. At school, they talk of a problem and it’s you. Knowledge of rot as long as you’ve had breath. Fortunate you, decomposition is a state of comfort. I write you because I dig for wrists and fingers when the soil is soft. I sprint against the hard freeze.