You are my overgrown lawn,
a thistle in the garden
whose needles dig under my skin.
You are the dry wood in my fireplace
right before the fire catches.
I am your starched white shirt
with the remnants of a blood stain
on the left sleeve.

You are the snow that covers
my old and rusty swing set.
You are the sound of the rainwater
running through the gutters.
I am the fresh cement sidewalk
with the leaf imprint
and your faint, scrawled initials.

I am the tooth under your pillow.
You are my bloody gums.