At the drop of

Your very last note —

Something rotted in me:

Some ideas of you,

Somewhat overly romanticized anyway.

Inside me,

The maggots of jealousy are feeding on my painbody,

Decomposing me from the pit of my stomach,

Consuming many layers of skin at once,

Corroding the joints of my bones

So they fall apart as single pieces.

You say,

And they say,

“Just let go.”

“Just open your palms,

And the sand will flow through the hourglass.”

“Just lift your feet,

And the water will flow under the bridge.”

I grow frustrated,

At the oversimplification of the implication of —

The word “just”.

—

Your berry-tainted lips open again,

And with authentic curiosity,

“What is that smell?”

Embarrassed by my decay,

I fiddled with the ashtray:

“The miasma of despair.”

“The reek of indignation.”

“The stench of regret.”