Metastasis

There are days
When I wish
I could go
To a doctor or
A mad scientist,
Sit myself down
In their chair,
Give myself over
To them as I once did
To you.
I would tell them,
“Put me on your machines,
Twist your dials,
Lay me open,
Vivisect me.”
As I think
Of you.
See?  There–
The places in my mind,
Illuminated, irradiated.
As I relive 
The memories of us
Refuse to fade.
Thirty years like as many minutes.
“Look,” I would say,
“See?”  Those places, there,
Tag the shining spaces
With your isotopes,
Target them, and with one
Simple touch–deft finger on
A magic button, vaporize them
Out of me, release my obsessed soul
From this eternal packrat bondage.
What would it feel like then?
To lie down at night,
Thinking as always, of you
Your lips, your fingers,
Your voice in my ear.
What would it be 
To sleep, and dream of you
One last time, and then,
In the morning, wake and
Have you more than gone? 
Have you never been.
Would it be relief?
Instantaneous, subcutaneous.
Would I feel a weight lifted,
Something shifted that I
Never knew was there?
Or would my rebellious body
Telegraph your touch
Across itself, like
A bad itch, twitching
Over my skin, reminding,
Still binding, demanding
Complete attention until,
Despite all technology
To the contrary,
You came back?

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