(Poetry) The corpse of you

I hope one day to come across the corpse of you, while holding the hand of another man's daughter.
There we would drag you down some secluded alleyway, so that I could give her the education it took me years to graduate from:
a Masters in the Art of You.

 First I would run my hands across your body,
 making sure to find the puncture wound, or broken neck,
because if this is anything like our relationship,
 without rigor mortis you are bound to come back to life, and enter back into mine.
And if history is meant to repeat itself,
 then I would rather be the one to drag a knife into your chest
 then let you pin your poisoned accusations into the very core of me,
 only to leave me the one floundering in painful familiarity.

And once I was done, I would pull my daughter's hands into my lecture hall, and recite my dissertation on what it was that made me wish that I could touch you,
kiss you,
let the world that had built itself upon my shoulders
 fall into a cloud of forgetfulness when I had the opportunity to take you in between my fingers,
 lacing your curves,
 your flesh,
 and the very sight of you
 underneath my nails that begged to release the truth of you away from that mask that you had latched onto.

So that if she ever came home with a head filled with questions,
and homework based on that "cute boy in class" lessons
I can remind her of her hands I pressed into your heart,
touching each tendon that was chilled with misuse,
showing her how some men can betray it so young,
using it as an after-thought, that had barely begun.

And if that isn't enough,

I will tell her about the silence that would eat away at our phones
 causing the rift between our bodies to expand,
 collapsing into a million letters that we never sent.
Of how I would type each unsent digit gently,
 like a lover,
 into the frame of our misdemeanors
 and from the release of those thoughts
 I would let the memory of you slip
 like watercolors
 into a muddled patching of what you were,
 to what I wanted you to be.

I'd tell her how I pray that she'll get the answers,
 without having to live the lessons
that she'll never have to play the broken record of a heart,
 that continuously skips over all of the best parts
and that from me, she'll know better,
that when asked,
 she won't make the choices that her momma never taught her.

And I'll pray that she'll forgive me for who I am today,
 remaining in the present here like I have,
 letting the rush of blood pump back and forth between the places where my heart and hands once stood,
 letting me replace the cur of my emotions
 with writings to you about trivial things,
 in hopes that maybe once,
 just once,
 you will understand that all I wish to whisper to you
 is that I hold out my love to you,
still.