Until there are so many
clouds in your head the grey skies
don’t matter anymore. Some
call it fog. Haze-y days so many ways
to forget and none of them stick.
Back and forth breathing in my lungs
and out of hers, fumes, smoke, co2.
Taste other bodies so much and
so often that the variety overpowers
the lingering ache for Them,
because salt water is an anaesthetic
even if if makes you empty your throat
into toilet bowls. Fill the hole
with loud music and red wine so fine
it curls your tongue because it
looks like blood and that’s a
good enough replacement.