There's that postal service sound,
blunt dental tools on rotten nerve endings.
Continuing this communion wafer
correspondence. Has become as natural
as air travel.
Fluid as tar.
Changeable as underwear.
The lace kind that stains.
Aerosol burns are more warming.
I'd take the intimacy of punishment
(you've told me how well I take it...)
over the hollowness in his absence.
Worse than the dysphoria of watching
another rental car pull away,
the phantom scent of your overpriced soap,
the days I convince myself I could detox you
from my very fucking plasma.
Repentant? relapsed? Never recovered.
This is a co-dependent correspondence.
Though I know that you can just.