Regret tastes like salt,
But they wouldn't know.
He doesn't worry,
And she doesn't eat.
He holds her face in his hands,
And she looks right through him,
Wishing to be anywhere
But where she is.
He recites poetry over the phone,
And she has to mute the speaker
So he can't hear her laugh.
Only from his sadness does she gain any satisfaction,
And so she toys with his head,
For sick pleasure
Is better than none.