And I can only read one poem
Per day, per month, per year, at a time,
Or else its eternity of letters will replace the oxygen I breathe
And cause me to release phrases of love and trust,
Of infidelity and mysteries, of insecurities,
And scars along my throat that never seemed to be

Deep enough.
But mostly I can only read
One poem per day, per month, per year,
At a time, because those were the words you wrote
To me while drinking your cold
Dark coffee that Tuesday morning when I hadn’t come
Back from the bathroom yet. I said I’d just be
A minute but with a minute I meant
An eternity, an eternity of blood along my left wrist,
Dripping from my pale white night-gown. I said I’d just be
A minute and you said okay and continued
Writing about the torture you’d feel having to wake up
And come home to silence,
While sipping from your cold dark coffee.