Without compassion
Yours is always the language of leaving
Always I find something to plaster on my
features as you barely wave

As beautiful and naked as mole rats
Comfortable stripped beyond skin.
You leave bottles in your wake
But leave again

And I begin a cycle
But begin is wrong, in the nature of cycles.
How quickly moments cease to be moments
How quickly memories are forgotten
And all I fight for in the end

The curves and rolls of bones and fat
The endless laughter
The fire
That burns when we are
together.