Here I am again—

ribs pressed to the quiet ground,
knees bent like busted hinges,
palms open, raw as skinned bark.

I wait for the dreaded traces of you:
a crumpled hoodie in my drawer,
the stale musk of your absence,
tiny fucking scraps of hunger —
the plate licked clean,
polished as if it owed you penance.

Tell me, dear, did you even taste it?
Or were you too wild with the need
to recognize what passed your lips?

Go on.
Keep eating.
Don’t mind me.
I’m not hollow,
just hopeful.

I’ll sip shadows,
fill me with the taste of spoiled wine.

I once believed love had roots —
deep as cypress,
tall as spires,
braced against the weight of storms.

But now I know it’s more like clay,
damp and heavy against my skin,
pulling me down as it drinks the rain.

And you —
you swallow the world whole.

I thought hunger was love,
but you didn’t stop eating
until there was nothing left to consume.

Still, I kneel,
choking on desperation and desire.

You undid every promise with a yawn,
but I swallowed them whole
for the very last time
 

and for once,
I stayed naked longer than you.