parts

my brain
cannot figure out
the neurologically feasible
way
to hate you.
although i'm ashamed to admit
she's trying.

my hand
is deluding herself
keeps imagining
she's in yours.

my eyes
are constantly scanning
for a glimpse of anything
that remotely relates
to you

the photos
the lonesome birthday card
the perfunctorily scribbled notes
haven't been much help

my neck
is drawing her own blood
to satisfy this gnawing
thirst for warmth

my heart
is still there
pumping
rather reluctantly.