my mother likes to think i can’t see
her dabbing her eyes dry,
that long, lost love is not something that is pieced
together into the equivalents of promises
and vows
yours have been broken
mine just beginning to birth
we are lying motionless
in this game
whose pieces are pawns of fate
and cruel intentions
for the strength it took to leave
is as brittle as the ground i forged for abandonment
and my poetry is as stale
as warm beer you drink just to forget