Gone

Though the you, the wound, and the bleeding are gone
The memories, scar and infection live on.
It's more than the needle-drawings on the sleeve of my skin.
It's the rough-healed gash I dug to China, plunged all the way in
Through what used to be the thickest part of me – my soul –
Now but a membrane over innards hard but never whole.
Most of all, I know you're there by what I see
When I dissociate, forget the face in the mirror is me:
Someone who would let a friend, the saintly silent, go
Instead of saying, doing, trying everything he knows

and I know it didn't go the way they should have been,
But hey, girl, at least I saved you further sight of him.