Untitled Lamentation of Indeterminate Number

I hook my little finger into the memory of you

Like a promise

Like a balloon string

Like the handle of an empty teacup

On its way to be washed and put away

There is pain in the pull

Of memory's buoyant weight

A familiar ache

Pressure on a mending wound

The comfort of stretching out the tense muscles of my hand

Fingers spreading

Knuckles popping from the strain

Of releasing a little more of you

Until only gratitude remains

Right there in my little finger

Where promises slip away

And memory holds fast.