warm fuzzy neck, she wasn’t poetic. didn’t have a way with words but had instead soft thighs and long hugs. tired of over-articulating my very existence, i certainly did love a moment to feel without speaking. shut my mouth and let my heart do the work. a chance to exercise using a new muscle, atrophied from years of neglect. my fingers do the talking now as no more words can be spoken and that beating in my chest has found purpose only in basic survival. time in a cracked bottle, she escapes me. broken pieces of prose bloody my hands as i attempt to forget through black and white text what i wish i’d never known to begin with. we’ve all been here, but i swear mine is worse. i swear the hearse that hauled away the love i gave was bigger than yours. this pissing contest for the rights to pain only makes me yearn for a brand of reciprocity that doesn’t exist. i keep her name on my lips for i cannot help myself. she wasn’t poetic, but i am. the words keeping coming and i write because i can. maybe it’s all i have.
