I run my finger across the mouth of an empty bowl.
Lick at the last of the love I’ve been saving.
The sweet forgiveness, the salt crunch
of chosenhood, hot breath on necks,
There’s nothing left of it.

I’m meticulous in my addiction,
There’s residue on the rims to chew, I’m busy.
Solitude shines at me like a clean glass.
Smiles: “Are you done yet?”
I’m not asking to be fed anymore.

Breakfast in bed can’t be begged.
Outside the rain plays a lesson about how to
still pour naturally. Everything is fast food.
Dashing and knocking feverishly at doors,
Just to ask strangers if my face looks familiar.

What’s for dinner? Can I come in to pretend
Your arms are home, that this isn’t a rental?

What’s it like for all the faucets to work?
To be so full you throw up, sick to your gut with love.