By Devan Petersen
We’re breathing in our hellos,
catching them by their tails
as they drift out of our mouths
like little rats pattering mindlessly,
our pink tongues drunk on nostalgia
and I’m standing here wondering
just when did this become so hard?
So we stand grasping at sentences trying to
haul them back like it can somehow change
the stagnant and fetid air that is heavy between us,
this reeks of the death of friendship
the carrion of what were once easy words
and the gentle brushes of fingertips.
I long for the sweet innocence
that lets me chant words like “forever”
as if they mean nothing and everything
without this shadow hovering
and the knowledge that there is no such thing
as eternity when it comes to people you know.
Love never lasts it, likes to curl up under beds
until it has gone putrid and the air is sweet
with the smell of its passing long since gone.