Used up, bent, wrecked, and falling,
sinking with thirst, lips shriveling,
losing sleep over secrets past lovers might tell.
Worrying that I will forget the impression
your chin makes on my shoulder.

Do we love each other… as stopgaps?
Wondering if, instead, what we share is a plug for self-hate.
Are you listening to me… really?

If you don’t love me, I’ll sell my soul to Forster’s England.
I’ll leave you waiting, wrapped in a glittering daze,
sorry, because you didn’t kiss me goodbye.