Bromide apologies always flow
from your split lip: the dainty drips
causing chaos to your collar's cerulean.
The words turned to psoriasis on
the surface of my lungs: grating at
the muscles, searching for the smallest
gap - worming their way out - becoming
atrophic ash on my athirst tongue
whilst you broke necks to
turn that onion sweet; sculpting the
layers into some magnificent
monument to ignorance: an acidic
hearing-aid, preventing any sound-
induced-ripples from reaching your eardrum
after venturing over amber swamps
and through arrogant woodlands of hair.
I miss the silence.
I miss the awkward mucus it lines my
stomach with, keeping the words at bay,
leaving me to concentrate on counting to
ten
ten (so we can go back to square one).
Adimurti Community Member 
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