Goner

How could I, when four

of my last five nights 

have peeled into shadowy 

husk, when must gets

translated into will

you will receive a missive

requesting proof of an ache 

by way of breath-stamped 

brochure. 

It's pleasure, possibly, that

bullies us into frozen stock,

or puts out the flickering. 

It was not meant for this to

invert and float. It was cold

at the stopping point. Soap 

started to taste great. I was

only bitter—

that you draped in all your

company would elicit this

waste. Have not even 

our grandparents suspected

something amiss? 

The calls, as if in a cloud,

spiked with silence. 

When our lips last touched,

was that not indication
enough?