Words, dont j’étais tombée amoureuse, fail

When your last apology is spent

and even the lint in your pockets stinks of the moldy cliché

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have

(insert malfaisance here)”

what are you supposed to do?

Nothing you can produce is worth anything to those apple-pickers frolicking the beige brick road

No words in any language can replace the June light that seems to broadcast naturally from other people’s collarbones

and dangles over your craned neck like a feather-tail for a cat, never caught.

When the numbers sink down to the veins in your achilles and the emptiness in your stomach becomes a half-pound onion – ninety-nine cents at Albertson’s, dollar-twenty-nine at Real Food Market

when all the words that would have proven your innocence rush up in your face like salty waves one tide too late to splash your (hypothetical silhouetted) lover with all the sperm and eggs of tiny creatures foiling next year’s moon jelly crop

when the sun is setting and there is too much language in both your ears to let it sigh so as not to wake the moon or the cars dozing at the gas house

when the no one you love has declared no one wants another sorry apology

what’s a girl to do

but

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2 thoughts on “Words, dont j’étais tombée amoureuse, fail

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