you're mumbling again and the only letters
I can actually see stumble out of your mouth
and stick to your palms, like morning dew,
cigarette breath and the paste
you rubbed yourself down with when
we first met.

I innocently pull you closer, finger
the follicles of your hair, running my nose
along the crook of your neck that swells so much
when we almost do, but never,
really touch.
your scalp lets go in sheets like
re-used toilet paper or the broken linoleum tile
under our feet.
and when I try to press them back on
you sob into my chest (a childhood
distain for puzzle-pieces) and let
your letters bubble, and bead,
and carry themselves along,
me, shivering.



inevitably, I turn from you
with bruised retinas and those familiar
nonsense-syllables tangled triplets
in my hair,
those I'll never again try to put together.

letters, drying into my skin,
I bend my body in hope
of the resemblance of  -
        anything.


                           you used to tell the most beautiful love stories
                                 even if they were never once about me.