when it comes
to loving
we're both
always haunted
by loss
to the point
of possession
vomiting
our pain
so fiercely
that love
gets covered
by chunks
of our guts
there's
always
this stinking
heap
between
us
then alone
again
we stick fingers
down
our throats
weeping
&
drying heaving
through
the
nights
trying
to
puke
up
emptiness
never learning
that,
unlike pain,
ennui
cannot
be
purged
this
is
the
stuff
the
stomach
is
made
of