You now live in your pronouns: in your nameless identifiers, in the outline on cracked asphalt, in the too few evidence markers. Maybe if I say your’s enough I could shape the rest of you out of those cherry stems, the green ones we spat out knotted on the fire escape.
But you—no. She—no.
Something is missing. To magnify a chalk outline on the pavement, I need something more than futile hope, more than a neighborhood waiting for the unapt obituary. We need a name; but even I can’t say it. Instead, we pray to the “you” and “she” and “her’s” and “ours”, speak of you in every sentence we have left to say.