We had days we met. We had a first one. We had a last one. And we may have another one. I never knew you for more than one day. But I knew some things. Some things were familiar to every person you became. We had this thing where we became and un-became in the company and absence of one another with the intent to meet again. And un-meet again. And sometimes we each made the other become. And become again.
        The way your femur beckoned fragility, bartered through your body between lands of basins; bent light into fractions. Between ocean liners of skin tissue and stillborn spores. You had a birthmark in between your forefinger and thumb. Press inward. -- Force me to puncture membrane into matter and fathom could you bend my body until the light breaks. On a mattress, in a body; this is only a body... And my mattress was always polyethylene and blue. 
        Book frames and membranes, soft membranes, mono-graphed at the base of my spine from one or two times or every time you let your fingers settle towards me. If your eyes fell down-ward every time, then who am I? The one who watches as you lift separations each time. I watch. I watch each time. There was a scar on my upper right shoulder you had to encounter. And I used to hope the springs would break where your body had lain, but only for reasons that would migrate.
        And who do you become, as a spectacle of mine? Because I'm not sure you know what face you make when you make memories on a mattress, towards me, with me, at me, because of me. I see. I see light refracting from eyes that spent the day looking and I see now, then how your tongue pressed tightly. I see skin taut, tighten, doesn't maneuver much; isn't malleable much. Moves for me slightly, but not ever away from me. In the way a nucleus is always centered otherwise its body is not its body. You would breathe in subtleties and fold down a solitary wrinkled sheet. It had ruptures and it had perimeters.
        We had our moments, and I had mine. And I never liked the way you looked the next morning, but that's what I am left with. More stressed skin; your hair in my bathroom sink. Dusted coatings, dusted substrates, dusted metaphysics. Dust becomes the texture of what you were to me when I felt your skin pull away. Your skin pulled away and so did mine. Formulated particles in forms. And there went mine.
        I had a couch. You had your side. It was floral, and it was cream, and it had chestnut. You liked the side by the end table, and that was fine. We made innuendos through linguistics and time tables. You had your hand on my thigh every time. And sometimes, still, I feel where your hand has left, still. And that couch was just like the bed, to me; repeated. You broke that lamp and the light bulb never came back on, but that lampshade looks better when it's not lit, it has more texture.
        The carpet got stained burgundy and that was you. The walls remind me of you. You have texture, too, when you are in a room with me. When you are not, I don't know if you do. We watched Annie Hall and I am Woody Allen. There is a TV I have never turned off because you watched it with me. And it faces a body of a bed; the bed of a body.
        Bodies of beds fold into my surface and reflex like membrane. And bodies of land that shrink down into pores suck me up in. They close over. The way you would catch me after a lapse of control over my body's excitement as it responds to the moment after. And tell me to roll over onto you and stare at a cheaply rented stucco ceiling that reverberated the previously silencing noise. My poorly painted walls I never planned on finishing. They were orange and you hated orange, but you held me anyway. Hand over openness to restrained elasticity. My inhales always echoing into the same deposits. They hollow before they reach my organs. 
        It is in a new body. One warmer and one near to me.