when he told me he was sorry to hear that the pain was worse again, i truly believed him. how many ibuprofen can one migraine consume before you implode? and later when he told me i didn’t have anything interesting to say i believed him again. how many words do you use in a day, miss in a day, little ‘hellos’ and ‘thanks yous,’ when your grief has brought you a year of mute mourning. i used to think paris was a pretty place, and there’d be starlight paths leading me to iron lattice towers, but instead the roses floating down a sinewy seine thick with juices from human consumption. how many times can i remember and repeat all the bad things you’ve ever said to me, remember and repeat, and why are they haunting me now? i thought i had finally kicked your face out with my old words, but like a ghastly cockroach you’re always around, observing me, when i can never see you.