You are the psoriasis of my skin,
a multiplicity of memory
growing faster than my life.
I can't help but scratch until I'm
red raw and oozing
with the thought of
you.
Sunshine brings a temporary relief
from the itching and a sweet
forgetfulness.
But in the depths of dismal
February, midway, when
hearts and flowers abound,
the interminable
grating
of remembrance holds you
near,
shedding fragments of us on the
bedroom floor.
Sheets are dishevelled from
solitary tossing and failed turning
of a new leaf.
Oh my darling, putrid valentine.
Be gone.

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