I run out of breath before I even start to speak,
and intentions tumble uselessly around my tongue.
All the volumes of disappointment and shameful yearning
push up against my uvula, causing me to dry heave in a
wet pool of self-pity.

It’s not that I am pining,
I just wish it was your hand searching the short hairs
at the back of my neck. Instead it’s another lamppost,
and yet another green sign marking the way to an
increasingly unfamiliar scene.