souvenirs for sale

I tried to find a loophole for loving you
by forwarding your letters
and rewording mine
that I composed only in mind,
oh, and maybe heart,
but no pens were allowed.

With memories the language of emotions
and love the wormhole of the present
I skip dashes on the timeline
like heart-hurdles:
the year we met, the month we kissed,
the week I realized that
a string of pleasant days
wasn’t enough
to steady the splints on our souls
sold to each other with increasing interest rates
our deepening disinterest couldn’t repay

So I look for tauter splints
in the fine print of our covetous covenant—
we said we’d always love
without promises that we’d always
be in love,

And I’m finding it hard to occupy
a place that seems to only exist in rhymes
between images of scintillating suns
and proud crimson tulips
like our two lips
that can’t be parted,
even just to say:
“let’s keep this as a memory.”