you told, you told. you told
the mirror with your bangs pulled down
low; a veil. wedding to the horizon. bride
and concubine of some foreign and gone place,
not down the road like you hoped but leagues
away: terrifyingly far. your feet ache. so
you told, you told. you told
the ceiling of the bathroom with your hair spread out
wide; sheets on a forgotten bed. dogmatic and ritualistic,
something that you had hoped you forgotten like
the scent of the pillows— but have you truly forgotten
or do you just hate the nostalgia that
pebbles like dew on the leaves of memory,
slipping dripping off the tip of your tongue
in forbidden song, precious and tear-like,
salted and sweet as they platter on the floor, freezing:
you told. you told.
you told.