I recall your caressing my clavicles amongst some talk

of future romance and genuine joy during a brooding rainfall.

I was preoccupied with my satisfaction at not having eaten in a week, the liquor within your language,

and the dull notes of glass above us,

reluctantly expecting an upcoming episode.

This time it features an entirely new character beneath me,

ignoring the ache of my acutely protruding ribs and hip bones out of pity and hunger.

I recall your caressing my clavicles.

Ability and will profoundly differ,

as do days you’ve had a drink,

buffering for a moment all of the instances in which I should lament.

I won’t eat another pomegranate again;

my teeth, from the acid of regurgitated meals and affairs,

have become hypersensitive.

My appetite dissolved with your mind,

and I lack the time to search for it.

I recall your caressing my clavicles


as well as my last supper.

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