When you apply my old jacket
to your person, and the fabric
caresses your arms the way my hands
used to, does an image of our time together
flock into your mind,
or is this jacket no longer a conduit
of memory, and just a piece of degrading leather,
fit for the trash receptacle?
That word, love, it has lost
its once proud poignancy,
tortured by over-usage,
until it is abandoned by basic dialect,
and fulfills the last dying oath
of any treasured word,
and becomes an unhealthy cliche.
This is the length and breadth
of the relationship we shared,
the image of your face, I once cherished,
now haunting me, making my every sense
tremble with delirium,
until even the thought of you
is poison in my veins.