• 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).