Picking a wound,
knowing you the way I did.
It was like,
I can't get my words right. It was like, knowing I
wouldn't be able to open the doors to the house
I used to live in,
like wine rings on the hardwood never disappearing,
ringing in my ears after standing next to the speaker
bump, bump, bump, bump, bump
I'll dance on you, make it look like I'm doing you a favor.
I'll kiss you at the corner again,
and leave your hand on my face
for one last time.
Pull away, knowing I will think about this fuckery
a month later.