Wrapped tightly around torsos, cold feet,
75 percent of me,
Covered with heat.
Mouth full of rye,
Mind full of why—
Your mind is full of me,
15 days apart,
Six sips of moisture from the broken heart,
Three, fifth days away,
A drink of poison, the taste of dismay,
Walking into light, into night, toward the moon,
A decision to break sanctity, you made too soon,
A counteracting impact,
Stilled your muscles and has broken the back,
Of your structure…your gears,
You’ve ruptured your ballooned fears.
When your heart speaks in public,
You keep composure neat so that your girls may think nothing of it,
But what does it?
What causes the jump in the lip?
What causes the fall of the eyes?
What causes the chest to rip?
When we intersect in Subway by surprise?
When you understand that the entire relationship was built on individuality and girlish lies?
Telling yourself you’ll be better alone, alongside–
Your freezing feet,
Quantity control, of more of you and less of me.
The negative space takes its time and carefully picks them,
From the lot of willing men,
Holding women together,
That have been forever,
The glue, 75 percent of you,
In which no weather can war,
In which no woman, no matter the mind, can ignore.