The failure packed
in boxes without a title
boxes disclosing nothing

of the five tastes
of love, its nettles
and the sticky grass around it

With your stuff, the misunderstandings
the quiet pain of distance and
not retell-able jokes

which I immediately forgot
in my ache
for company

Bye boxes, bye love
it’s okay to leave me now
alone with the afterthought

Farewell, there’s no purpose in this
the god of adieu
doesn’t exist