Poetry Writing

Edge I

I bit my lips wide open; ruined them.
I know what it was to leave you in your bed.
To feel you against my skin for the last
time as I sat against your sink and
smelled you in my hair. (No, No, No)
Empty rose petals were swallowed
by screwdrivers made of bone.

I sucked and sucked for more
flavor from the petals, tucked the single
flower up against my windshield,
then watched as the wind gently
carted it away. Without ceremony,
the smell of tea leaves still in the air.

You felt yourself here, in the alcove at
the back of the house, where I watched
your shoulders (God, I love your shoulders) leave.
We are nostalgic messes, fumbling to
connect. And here I come apart.

Please miss my fingernails.
Please miss my rose-scented lips.
Please miss the night(s) you saw it all.

via *


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