If I could only see the faint and fading lines, remnants of a half-erased topography, I would take a tracing paper, lay it down across the days and years, and trace the map of us. And then, with map in hand, I might follow the meandering line to lead from here—to where?
Just exactly where the curve of my neck met the wandering of your lips? And, perhaps, where hands brushed hips and fingertips found fingertips?
If I had a tracing paper, oh, I’d trace and trace and then erase the steps of routes that I’ve forgot -the Legend will explain – “With exes marking every spot” until I’d found again what I had and what I lost.