She, who lines up her royals
at the back of the chess board,
isn't solely a surface
on which another person pens
a novel and leaves.

She, who can wrap herself
so tightly inward so that
cars may crash inside of her,
could get him to pull out
his own gallbladder and
slip into the pocket of her jacket.

He, who tossed himself
into her but can't manage
to even phone her, is a
shelf-life of a million years plus two.

He, who has got her wrapped up
inside of him like a bullet
in the gut, in a small cavity -
the emptiness just off to the right -
where his gallbladder used to be,
refused to commit to those items
that are so human,
like lining up the royals
at the back of the chess board.

They spun like planets, wrapped
up in each other's gravity.

Getting by without ever
picking up the phone.