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?