building with the broken.

by now you’ve become just another name in my address book.
seven letters used to jump out at me when i flipped through the h-i-j-k’s;
your four syllables leapt to my tongue
and i blushed as i tried to spit out your consonants.
your vowels tripped over my teeth.

and you used to know me so well you could name every freckle on my body.
now i’m afraid you don’t even notice the smudges under my eyes
where insomnia pressed his wretched thumbs
to hold me still as he
kissed me deep and stayed the night.

if you never wanted me, why didn’t you just tell me so?

i still remember the night you squeezed me so hard my heart popped like a bubble.
you could have fashioned me a new one out of liquid soap and a plastic wand,
but you said you had no air left in your lungs.
“you take my breath away,” you said.
and i guess that last breath-stealing kiss was a punishment of sorts.
if i took your breath, shouldn’t i have twice as much?