your words cut deep,
deep in the flesh of my soul
and that was how it’s always been,
I guess. And we were just waiting for
words to go between the words we said,
to add up to the little things that brought us
together, saying words to each other slowly,
without affixing other words that can drive us
away from each other, like when the love was said,
and when the love was gone, and all we ever did was
say ‘I don’t love you no more,’ instead of what we always
told each other, as if the words ‘don’t’ and ‘no’ are always just
negatively inserted between the cartridges of our vocabulary, and instead
of loving each other more and more, we settled on elisions, thrown between
our words, our sentences, our 5 AM conversations, our used-to-be-connections.
your words cut deep and we tear our tangled limbs. elision. that’s what it will be.

I can still taste your flesh on mine, as if my pores soaked in all of your pheromones and stored them in  safekeeping for nights like this, nights when whiskey becomes the only sleeping medicine powerful enough to soothe my troubled mind.
The memories come in broken patterns, like a film strip played on a rusty wheel, or like the thrifted records we would buy in the dozens - scratched and dusty, but still recognizable.
A kiss. A hit. An I-love-you. A shudder. They were all the same at this point.
I didn't know who else to go to but my mother.
My speech was slurred, elisions that made my words condense into one. Still, she understood. She had been here before.
She told me that days would turn into weeks, and before I knew it those weeks would shift to months, years, eternities within themselves.
I told her I didn't like the prospects of this.
She told me it would be okay, that all I had to do was follow in her footsteps.
I found the bread crumbs easily.
Jack Daniels was the only witness I had as I pulled the trigger
and I smiled in spite of the fact that until tonight, I had never believed in ghosts.

My Pen nonchalantly flows its ink,
Over the empty lines; thirsty.
Thirsty for epigrammatic language.
The spoken line’s elisions and falsifications,
Predispose propensities,
And mutate the prevailing attitude,
Towards us, our future,
Not others or theirs.