I tried saltwater rinsing, but your scent still
rims my nostrils like
the ghost of moments too blue to be
winnowed out of my being,
the sweet of your fanciful presence too
deep to be counteracted.
Caught a cold trying to nurse scraps of my sanity
zapping it altogether in the process.
Tried scraping impossibilities off my hopeful dreams
and like my fervent childhood attempts to scour
the big black birthmark from my right leg,
it left me exhausted and heavy
with a sense of defeat
and dull, damp lines
This disease gives me a reason to
press against itself, something to push for
And by this fall i will have forgotten how
your words spelt spring,
my fingers will be conditioned to reach for
backspace in case i still type your name
right in the dark.
...And when i have won my soul back from
your chance captivity
in a gamble with fate, i'll throw it at the whore's feet
the better to track it's impending treads; for
the exactness of instinct alone
a) i hate the word sweeetness
b) i need to stop sucking so bad
c) this is a lie.