The scalloped silver salver filled with coins from all the countries I’ve been without him.
That Edwin Lutyens clock – made of Jadeite and sterling silver, shaped like the dream
that electrified Nexus-6 android’s sleep, rose gold numbers on a platinum face, behind
a small glass portal like a monocle with Lutyens’ signature finial on top. The clock hands set at 11:11 – an hour most synchronous according to new age freaks. I refuse to wind its clock gears or chimes. In fact, none of my clocks or watches run – I have stopped all time – blinding smug clockface eyes until the meter of my rhymes provide a conga line that will bridge the chasm of our distance and dance him over here to this bed of mine.
The bookmark buried in the closet beneath physiology texts that are all haphazardly stacked like two recombinant DNA twerking Twin Towers; they are the plinths propping up three wicker baskets filled with left-foot sandals, snakeskin belts tangled up in sequins and spangles, the boa I never wore, the bustier he should have torn, turquoise stones, old Hermes scarves, and one lone woven rattan box with broken hasps embracing the last abandoned art supplies of youth: Mississippi River watercolors muddied with time, Easter eggshell soft pastels the grey and white most worn out, acrylic paints – all in hues of veridian green, charcoal pencils with the tips chewed off; 00, 01 paint brushes with kolinsky sable tips- all of it precariously sits like a house of sticks shivering on a San Francisco fault-line whose residents try to forget gravity and earthquakes actually exist. The bookmark holds my place on page 161 in The Trigger Point Therapy Workbook Second Edition: “Chapter 8 -Trigger Point Guide: Mid Back, Low Back, and Buttock Pain”. The bookmark is the rayograph Radnitzky never took of us: profile of two faces together looking like a splayed sacrum, or a sad man’s lungs, or Monarch butterfly wings pinned by Nabokov – suspended in silver gelatin, two hands pressing the weight of time against our skulls, keeping us just that breath apart – portrait of the negative kiss we’d yet to become.
The Facebook Messenger app where he lives.
The impression in the mattress that only the thought of his body has left on my bed.
The space enclosed within the mediastinum, the medial cavity of the thorax, from the second rib to the fifth intercostal space, on the superior surface of the diaphragm, posterior to the sternum and anterior to the vertebral column that held my heart.
A muscular organ that plays beautiful music, about the size of a closed fist, able to both set its own rhythm and to conduct the signals necessary to maintain and coordinate this rhythm throughout its structures that functions as the body’s circulatory pump. It takes in deoxygenated blood through the veins and delivers it to the lungs for oxygenation before pumping it into the various arteries (which provide oxygen and nutrients to body tissues by transporting the blood throughout the body). It is located in the thoracic cavity medial to the lungs and posterior to the sternum. On its superior end, the base is attached to the aorta pulmonary arteries and veins, and the vena cava. The inferior tip is known as the apex, rests just superior to the diaphragm. The base of the heart is located along the body’s midline with the apex pointing toward the left side. Because it points to the left, about 2/3 of its mass is found on the left side of the body and the other 1/3 is on the right.
Another notch on my lifeline.