three days later & the letter
is still on the kitchen table, her
last words etched into the wood &
the space behind his eyeballs.
(he doesn't need to open them to
know what it says, it's all the same
but worse - it's not you, it's me
... this wouldn't of worked out,
anyways ... i'm sorry.)
for what, he wants to yell so
loudloudloud the windows will shatter
into a million little pieces like his insides
did three days ago & he'll forget
(i don't deserve it) because you never saw
this trainwreck coming at all, not at all.