I wish I still held some pockmark on your porcelain skin,
so that any time I caught a glimpse of you in passing
I’d see that stain that I left on your life
and know that I’m not something you can just laser away
into the decay
of the dissolution of another goddamn neverending story,
I want to go back to the hookah shop,
and breathe in the blood of the newborn
me and you before me and you
turned into me, and you,
that pause turning into something more formidable
than any wall that ever stood between us.
But my barren fists can’t shatter time,
they’ve broken plenty of glass
and bled enough for both of us,
but I can’t break through to ever get back to you,
and I just have to let you go,
and I just have to let you know,
that you’ve made your mark on me.
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