Schmuckumentary

Are you touching him
after circling the island
on a borrowed motorbike—
salt crusting your hair,
my name already rinsed away?

In your hotel room,
do you cup his chest
the way you once steadied my doubts,
checking if he is softer,
smaller,
less of a mountain than me?

Do you stare at the hills
and think of my body—
how I rose and fell,
how you climbed me
until I eroded?

Will your northwest tenderness
pillage him too
the way you pillaged me—
quietly,
completely,
a demolition without sirens?

I can only watch:
you occupying thousand-year-old shores
while I was still unweathered.

So I convince myself
it is January—
the peak season for leaving:
the sun too heavy,
the wind making choices easier.

I find childish reprieve
in the sand finding your shoes,
your throat,
your intimates—
an ancestor’s minor plague
burrowing into your skin,
reminding you
how the smallest histories persist.

I hope paradise teaches you
just how small you are.

But mostly—

I hope I become
something you rent,
ride hard,
and return
without ceremony.