I left a toothbrush by your sink
and called it a question.
A whisper of want in plastic casing.
A small, disposable hope.
But we never say it.
We just keep folding weekends into wounds -
touch into translation,
love into the past tense
before we’ve even written the ending.
Every part of me split
between want and retreat.
you can read all my poetry here on instagram
This was stunning!!!