I miss the man

On love and detective work

I miss the man with the scar on his back

split down the middle like a zipper.

I traced it with my lips while he slept and dreamed

I was a detective, someone willing to investigate, sift through

his insides, rearrange some pieces.

One inch at a time, I pulled the zipper.

Sticking after every move, friction riding

his brakes, pause. Pause. Careful!

Pause, pa…