Nothing is Ours

The trees rush past me, 

they go where you are—memories I haven't made—and wait there

in March, my March,

the last time you lived without my anger.

Every question of yours has no answer,

if I answer it.

I thought only children needed love. 

Why does every bird sing your song?

Orion, the gust outside my old school, the red in someone's palms, the whistle in my voice, 

they should remind me of all the things I once had,

but they only remind me of you.

I know your laugh, before you open the door, 

I knew your father, before you ever told me,

I forget your disregard, and then you defeat me.

I chip away at myself, 

nothing of mine exists, it is all yours,

and if you ever saw me, you'd know,

the hollow of my ribs could be your home.