Re

No, not at all like some wretched flock

tearing into the Promethean liver that is the memory of you

As doomed as its bloodied silver platter,

but to monotonous diets rather than.. you know

More so,

Like my roommate’s plants who only know to stretch their arms slowly,

slowly, slowly

in the direction of a sublime warmth

leaning eagerly such that they might topple over next year, they just can’t

wait (he never rotates their little pots)

Or the

pattern suspiciously shaped like a

heart

that my thumb will still catch me tracing

into the handles of my steaming mugs