Synecdoche
My hands still recall what the rest of me forgets— bodies beneath the sheets, the phantom of warmth, the spot where your head used to rest on the pillow. My body is an archive of the gestures written in it: my palms on your breasts, how you turned to face me before our lips touched I talk of the heart but mean the pulse in my wrist. I speak of you but mean the silence that fills every part of my body Every part of me still aches in the name of the whole.


Thanks for sharing this poem, @Keifer Allan
Thank you, @Abigail George, for sharing this poem.