ellipsis

she goes to sleep
clawing at her chest with pinpoint accuracy
for an emptiness she can’t describe,
but hates all the same. tomorrow

she will write a letter: “dear boy,
i always wanted to be somebody’s
flowery poem, but the verses carved in my arms
are riddled with ugly clichés. & you are why

i don’t sleep through the night. if
we were a language, i was the
subordinating conjunction, you were

the punctuation.

i remember you in staccato
conclusions, solemn absences
of goodbye”