A Letter Melodramatically Entitled Aftermath
I sold my king size mattress for $100,
bedsprings still coiled as if supporting our bodies.
Mornings start earlier on my extra long cot,
but I have already boycotted breakfast—
recollections of your eggwhite skin.
Now I have time to consider my open hand
as a transient cavity unsatisfied
with what it can reach.
While stretching, my heart stiffens,
then relaxes, unable to escape between ribs.
I have almost forgotten
if this failure constitutes a beat.