Absence makes the heart grow hungry.
Distance makes the heart eat itself.
I hid us under the sofa, tried to let us fester,
sat on my hands and feet until they felt dead
and I’d miss the last train
so I wouldn’t have to face it again.
I called you home and I really meant it.
But sometimes home only exists within a city,
and sometimes a city only exists
to turn buildings into claws,
to grip our cheeks and part our mouths into snarls.
So over the fisted dullness of this late March
trains race as if blood through veins
to take what’s left of us
to spend the weekend’s currency
ingesting until we split.