At least, that’s what she called you,
and I must admit it made me laugh.
He’s no one worth waiting for, she says,
but I convince myself I am not waiting,
just resting, readying for when
the inevitable chase
will begin again. 
 
Then all the sudden the grief
washes up again, from out of
nowhere it seems, like a glass
shard stabbed in the peach pit
of my throat once bruised, now
hollow and without a tongue
of my own. 
 
There’s something crawling
inside my ribcage, burning
and cocooning in cycles 
every night. He doesn’t
deserve you, she says.
Weak man. We both run
out of words.