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.