Where a forest of agate jars tells me I’m foolish

My hands forgot to tell you
why I needed you to say
‘I’m leaving’
‘This isn’t working’.
I have too many words that still remember our last kiss
how the rain cemented it into the skin of my lips
and refused to fade.
Blue trucks remind me of unfounded expectations
of a gray sky and hope held
on a too-loose promise around my finger.

On good days, I’ve forgotten the blades in your memory.
The bad days –
I spend counting cracks in plaster walls
supposed to keep me safe.
You were a devotion scribbled into the margins of my story
and I cherished every syllable that tainted my developing work.
The bad days are grains of sand on a sun-strewn beach
and I spend far too many hours
looking for agates in the waves.
I wonder why the good days leave me heavier
than the bad
when I’ve finally learned to choose which stones
made homes in my pockets.