to me at night she comes. wet parchment paper filled moments. only the errancy of her laughter --. a peel. a stuck key in a memory. struck. and when i wake to coffee morning. cold sheets and the reluctance of moving a body dead. suck ghost for air. and cling. like someone set the thing on fire. i say it again. in spanish. to the not-grey walls of the room. where the bed is too big. all day long. cama del amor. roll the locked tendon left bicep. finger tip to thumb. inside. incisor. strung. like ropes around us. to vide.

there's no language to say i miss you. as much. only the vacancy of the life like the space in a bed left by an old lover you now hate but still think about all the time which in some small way like a rock in the toe of your shoe when you can't stop to clear it out only makes you want to hate yourself a little more with every waking breath if you did that kind of thing. which of course. you don't.