I remember tasting the tobacco shored in your lungs,
and you had the courage to tell me
my auburn hair smelled of a bonfire.
I once vowed a dress I owned would forever smell of rain
and my ink-stained fingertips would fidget – restless
with memories,
but now, when I cradle myself to sleep,
my eyes are empty.
I no longer name the silhouettes
that landscape my bare walls
or dance along my broken skeleton bones.
I remember when my brittle skin was
scented like my favorite library,
but no one picks up an abandoned tome
when the ink that travels the pages
is nothing more than a smudge and ashy dots.
I am an empty teacup in a house that is
haunted with your name.
When I reread the letters you wrote me,
shards of glass glitter along voids of thought,
threatening to lacerate the emptiness.
To puncture the silence where
memories once towered like infernos.
Isabelle Palerma 
Your words illicit Salvador Dalí ‘Persistence of Memory’
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“When I reread the letters you wrote me,shards of glass glitter along voids of thought,threatening to lacerate the emptiness.To puncture the silence wherememories once towered like infernos.”
Such a valley of sorrow and loss this section illicits. I can feel the weight of what’s to come (if it were a physical room what wed need to do to renovate) and the loss of how things are now. Where healing would take a gargantuan undertaking and the understanding settles of what that entails. How many rooms in the mind to clear the debris? The care to not get cut while doing that labor of love. Asking where did the memories go and can they be coaxed back somehow. Investigating the space to understand it. The time to heal with it rather than fight with it.
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