Palm to ribs he writes what’s not there.
His lips spill the cheap words, “it only beats to keep me alive.”

But the cavity in which it should exist echoes the emptiness of her last goodbye
and it’s not ready for anything more than short hellos and drunk quickies.

I ****** him for the first time at 5 am on New Year’s.
He’s the definition of a void, but we brought in 2016 with a bang.

It’s still unclear which it ******* more –
his body
or the hollow mirror image of my chest.