t a s t e
after enough time for the sun to turn into a rusty penny, i would watch her scrub the cups stacked up in the sink for hours. gallons of dish soap to rid the taste of her ex-lover's cinnamon chewing gum. but of course, sometimes the guest bedroom held pinned down butterfly wings gently beneath glass. there was always something there (something she didn't see) that made you want to kill clarity the way you killed women who wanted to fly. and now, neither one of us can eat french burnt peanuts without sticking fingers down our throats because it isn't a candy shell we eat— it's the layered eyes of a man who could never love us right. and god...they taste like you.
the idea of you
first it was like little jelly hearts in mason jars because you were everything kind in a world running like lawn mowers. we planted flowers in the bed of your truck, over and over in my brain. one day we'd drive off listening to a pocket symphony and grow according to the sunflowers and the morning glories. yes one day. but in the meantime, you listened easy; a mix of butter and syrup. words slipped from a honey dipper and their contrails followed you for summers because you said promises like stargazing while munching on mango and feeling enough for novels after moonlit dinners and standing in sand while looking at sun glitter. except this time, i picked up the battery and gum wrapper, not you. it was never you. it was like when i'd play with playdough in the greenroom on lazy sundays but twisted up because this time, i created a monster. and while i choked on powdered chalk, i asked myself if i ever really loved you. maybe pretending was a good game for a broken clock like me. but it didn't matter anyways—ideas fit prettiest in jewelry boxes. don't you think?
