he listens to the treble of her voice—
and the silent ghost of the sounds that
fail to make it past her lips;
wanting nothing more than to dissect
the words of woe that weigh her heart
with a bitter aftertaste, like a
liter of ***** on a friday night,
because words were never made
to be swallowed whole and love
was, in no way, ever meant to be simple.
as the minutes go by he comes to
recall that despair is never a constant