I still think about your lips, sometimes.
There are more miles separating us than
there were days binding us together, there
are fewer words exchanged these days
than there were nights we got to see each other.
I’d like to know who you call now,
when you’ve lost your panties at a strangers house,
when the narcissists you date squeeze your tiny,
beating heart too hard and drop the leftover pulp on the floor,
when the shadows you cultivate slip out of their petri dishes
and wrap their slick little hands around your throat.
I hate this distance almost as much
as I hate you for putting it there.