She says to me—
as she sits on the bottom step of the back stoop
with her knees perched like a frog in the quiet hours
hand groping a shallow glass of purple wine
hair poorly governed into a temperate sideline
neck played back like a blossoming accordion
shirt-button colonies content to settle along the line connecting her gut to her lips
she empties the air from her mouth
and she says—
Love expires after seven months.
Love molts away from this burgundy bricked building.
Love slams car doors.
Love spits, “my father never liked you anyway,
and you talk too much.”
She remembers her eyes
are tethered to her right brain, she looks to me—
Do I talk too much?
I shake my head no.
She nods, releasing me to float up the steps to my apartment.
Her words climb the rain gutter and evaporate off the roof.
I gather what I can of condensation and water my room with her words.
I will grow loveless plants in the carpet
and bring the bees to pollinate these walls with the waning night.
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