We don't have to talk about it. The buzzing fire alarm, the sound of the engine in that gray car, your hands feeling more kind and familiar than my own. I laid in our bed, became one with our bed, remembering when I opened up my ribs for you and you just blew sand in me. Can you remember the taste of the last meal we ate together? I chew only the skin of a fuzzy peach and I suck on the pit until its roots grow under my tongue. Then I spit out my tongue. White socks, a trip to Chicago, cold light. Mouth open, tongue and teeth ache. I live alone now. Do you know what it’s like to come home to someone?
I wouldn't have married you if I'd known