He has a mouth like morning and picked me up from the ground by the ten second rule, the time it takes for one hundred thirty million babies to open their mothers, four hundred times he could have been on the train to come back.
He says I say I’m sorry in circles but Earth does it, her new cycle every day, why can’t I.
He should say he is sorry in circles: there have been nearly three hundred sixty five trains since we knew how to **** each others’ sadness through a straw and not puke, he would try to swallow it all.
He must see me as moss now, frizzy-haired, meant to be laid to rest on the floor for everyone to trip over because I am the reason that leap years exist - the skipping stone, spread water on the ones I love so they’ll be heavy and sink with me.
He must taste recycled beauty on me, the way new light turns the beds of his lips pink.
(I could not be her) he needs to say sorry until our hearts are the same shade of blue from suffocating below everyone, the bottom of the ocean waiting to resurface as a wave.