packing

if it can even be called that.

i never remember what starts

these charged discussions;

all of this unbiting my tongue,

and fighting with love

concusses my memory.

 

saying goodbye, 

though all I’ve ever wanted

is standing in front of me

slowly walking backwards

“I won’t chase him,”

 

you contort your face,

wiping it every few breaths 

as if you’re trying to open your eyes again somewhere else.

here, I melt;

and decide I should have kept this to myself.

 

our tongues are not knives

they are spoons at best,

trying to stab one another.

instead we end up bruised,

it’s foolish.

 

soon after, we’re kissing

swooning, wishing 

we never picked up anything in the first place

 

the floor covered in spoons.

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