I Once Had A Lover

I once had a lover
who had gone head first
through the windscreen
of a rented car in Greece.

When I ran my hands over his forhead
I could feel where the shards of glass
had embedded themselves in his skull,
where the skin had grown over,
how the pieces of windscreen
had become a part of him
the way the weeds will grow over
anything left lying long enough
to be tangled in green tendrils.

Later,
after the cracks had appeared
and another type of shattering
left everything broken
there were pieces left beneath my skin
that sometimes I can still feel
though the skin has long since grown over
and the lumps are imperceptible
to eyes and hands
and lovers' lips.

Shattered and broken,
embedded
the leftovers of loves casualties
beneath the skin
impreceptible
barely there
beneath a new lover's touch
suspended in flesh

we are one,
the past and I
entwined as are the weeds
and anything left lying
too long
in their path.