when every last bit of you has been severed from me
and the world disintegrates,
i'll be left with nothing but my poems;
nothing but carefully-worded phrases spinning about my skull,
reminding me of past sadness and unrepeatable, infinite moments,
but my poems are not my friends
friends don't make me feel a sickening nostalgia
paired with isolation
no, my poems are like gum on the bottom of a shoe
scrape them off and move on,
but one can never completely remove the residue
one day, a pebble will become bound,
and each following step will wear on me;
the pain of something so miniscule will tear at me
until i write another poem,
another clingy friend-seeker to use me up,
but they'll never render me empty
my next bout of word ***** has already begun disgorging