Love Songs to Those Who Have Stopped Speaking to Me


In the crook of an alley
we listened to music
through long sessions of rain
and spooned canned sardines
into the parched lobbies of our mouths.
The past: a mausoleum
layered like an onion; in the center,
the tomb of all unmet
relations. When the moon shone,
my skin tingled in precise
places as though cupped by heated glass;
by the round vowels of your messages.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.