In the Kitchen
This is how it always goes, right? How things are and how things were lose hold of themselves and crumble. The crumbs are leftover on the kitchen counter, in the light of the fridge at two a.m. But you’re gone.
Cigarette butts and broken glass, stuck to my feet. My head is swimming and my stomach falls out on the floor with the cigarette butts and the broken glass and the crumbs and my own weak blood.
It’s cyclical, this love.
This is the best part, now, when you’re coming back around.