The Piano is Not Firewood Yet

This isn't a love poem.
We are no longer lovers
but my skin still itches at the sound of his name.
This is about how I've forgotten how to use my hands.
 I am back in his bedroom again, undressing
at the bedside, hair falling down to my breast.
Yet this isn't a love poem.
This is morning, and you are the fog I get lost in.
I am already on the next train, the next taxi.
I am thinking of undone laundry, and last nights dinner.
I am thinking of paperwork, and doctors appointments.
Of back pain and the broken coffee pot.
This isn't a love poem
but of loss and dirty dishes.
How I haven't shaved my legs in days.
A poem of supposed almost lovers,
of unlearned secrets.
About how I have become a tourist to his body again.
This isn't a love poem.
This is a funeral speech of hide and go seek
of long lasting goodbyes, and Chinese take-out.
This is a poem of bad jokes and early mornings.
Of missing bodies, and broken promises.
This is about drunken phone calls, last months paycheck,
a trip to Seattle.
About open legs, regret and forgiveness.
Belly laughs made gentle.
We are no longer lovers, but my palms know
the road map of his stomach, the pathway of his thighs.
How he'd clean up my messes.
This isn't a love poem, but a declaration that he is the sea
and I have now forgotten to swim.