Since you’re already gone, I should tell you that I hate your hands.
They are dripping with salt,
Leaving a trail from my bed to a place I am not welcome,
where you’ve hidden my goodbye, and the breadcrumbs to get me home.

These hands of mine know nothing of gentle or guitar strings or letting go,
They are a gravedigger’s caked fingernails.
They are a decade’s yellowed wrists.
They are swollen palms carrying temporary I love you’s
Or murky I.O.U’s and they cannot tell the difference.
They have tried.

Something was kicking at the back of my knees even in our warmest nights
together,
nights where I was busied tracing freckle constellations on the back of your neck.

Since you’re already gone, I waited too long to tell you that second chances have been
following behind me like a carcass dragging, that my fingers are begging to be buried in a coffin where there is still room to kiss.

And since you’re already gone,
You should know that my hands feel like throwing away
The substance after it has already killed you.

They can’t hear your apology six feet under.