You crumbled into letters
and awkward spaces
unneeded semi colons;
my hand on your cheek
your waist, your lipstick-less lips became
note the particular emphasis I have
placed upon that solitary noun
note how it encompasses everything
or nothing depending on
whether or not you read this;
see it as a lament, or a violent
semi-chapter, or bookend.

Indifference tells me that I do not love you
was what I was intending on being my
first line
but I’ve rearranged us,
and now that I have your attention
note how clumsy you’ve formed upon this
page — perhaps this is a metaphor or
representational of our relationship.
You tell me.
You wrote this.

You’ve plenty more to say.

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