The staple to the backside,
to the front-side of the right side of my chest.
And the bedside of my mother's kitchen counter with the flames of the stove left on high.
To store the distilled and stoic grave of lace on the lawn.
Out in public,
Don't forget it.
Don't believe it.

If it were all that simple.
To alleviate the memories of the past-self.
And the left earlobe that listens,
And the right eye that cries.
Motions,
Needing,
Dancing to demise.
Mostly
Beating
Leading the song array.

Where has it gone?
To return,
Why?
Must it return,
Again, again, and again?
Leaving where we left off in the garden with spokes and needles, leave alone the songbird's heart you stole.
Leave it all there.
Let it grieve no longer.

Lastly,
Waiting,
Just to be accepted.

Something's different,
But things are just the same.