A bowl of soup in the summer,
completely lukewarm, smiles sickly up at me,
and I swish away old reflections of you:
they've grown into the bottom of my bowls
and I've spent three days in stained dishwater,
but I'm only flushing soap suds down the drain.
We crack open flat sodas, leaving our genes
unspliced, words unsaid and fights unfought,
emptiness vacuuming the air that once filled
effervescent hollows. It's all fizz and spritz
on the dry air, conversation hissing untruths and
obligations on our lonely tongues.
I stole a penny from the college change jar and
flicked the heads of every French Bourbon against
the tail of our relationship, wagging and frayed.
It's gathered dust, now, since I returned it.
I wish we'd spend our change.
