And you wonder still
if this is anything like salt. How much you can add
before you can’t separate it from egg whites and whipped yolks
anymore, how long you can stay alive with
“always” lodged between “it will” and “hurt”
before you even think to
call an ambulance. Yet you won’t even
get past the receptionist because
everyone knows someone leaving you
isn’t filed under emergency care.
Said there’s no blood from being alone;
so go home, go home,
go home.
Soon after you’ll be sitting
at the kitchen counter dissecting a platter of
27 old text messages, wondering when good morning
and good night became fish bones
tucked behind throats instead of honey.
It's a graveyard down there.
And it’s never how you thought it’d end up.
So wipe your mouth
with the back of your hand
until their phone number's just
a smudge of ink shaped like
an unknown continent on your skin
because baby, believe me,
some things just aren’t worth finding again.
