When you sit
Amongst loose-knit rubble
Like a halfhearted apocalypse
With your hands out,
Fingers splayed
As if to say, here,
Here are my pieces,
Weave me back together,

I will just stare through
The hole shaped from inky dusk
On my horizon
Etched when you escaped
Into a pinpoint of skyline,
Trying to remember
The sensation of liking
The person you love.

I don't want to hurt you,
But conniving with empty palms
Will not wrinkle your spine
Enough to make you see
That standing up straight
Was never the point.