waste: Calligraphy

I catch the curve
of calligraphy on the delicate skin inside your arm

an incomplete circle,
your memory of Japan

a trace of all this time
and things that go, and then come back around.

The sun catches the red in your hair,
as it did when you leaned on the balcony
into southern light ten years ago.

I certainly don't imagine
the kiss you remember; I have forgotten it,
and how you chose her,
I have forgotten that too

and the dim soft light of the loft you shared
as I awoke to write and let the lovers sleep
and watch the minutes alone
spill like marbles across the tiles.