loose threads

There is nothing poetic or beautiful about this ache. It is face down on the floor weeping into the carpet like a water bottle with a loose cap, it is my laundry piling up on the floor, it is unanswered messages from people who are not you, it is staring out the window imagining another city another bedroom another bed and your mouth, those lips and that chin, a ferry ferrying hearts across the sound, to and fro, and I am here, made entirely of a supernova and a black hole, all light and all dark, stretching time to impossible limits to shred everything because entropy must and I just really fucking miss you.

-rjm