Your thoughts - or, lack thereof,
Pierce me like tiny paper cuts covering the length of my body.
My stomach burns from the whiskey and the thought of you,
On your bed,
Smiling, with your fleshy lips parted slightly,
Smiling in the gash of a window that is spilling dusty light onto your cheeks,
Smiling without me.
I still call you in a hazed blur of swollen words that all rush to get out of my throat.
I get your machine and waste no time to declare an uncomfortable amount of thoughts I repeat a thousand times in my head.
The dinner table looks a million miles long when I see you again.
We barely speak,
You touch my hand one more time,
Rough and fast, and I can\'t remember the last time you\'d wanted to touch me, to kiss me.
You peck my cheek one more time and I can\'t remember my name,
But I remember, in a vivid streak of hot tears, how we used to kiss at this table. How you used to make me feel so worthy.
You sound like a Bible verse when you tell me,
\"Goodbye.\"
And I am here again,
Swallowed by an inky blackness that drips onto the paper I call my friend.
You are now a ghost that swings its chains to wake me up at night.
I cannot see through you.