A scrap of loss, slippery
like childish bubbles,
slides from your lips,
as they touch mine
and it almost seems
like we both whisper

goodbye

But when I wake up,
the crook of your elbow
framing my head, our eyes
blurred from fitful sleep;
it tastes more like

i'm sorry

And no phrase will ever
change this, or make this
the way it should be.

a/n: Again, I'm rusty but I keep forgetting I'm meant to be a poet.