I search for you,
flipping pages
of newspaper,
(black smudges on fingers)
scrolling images
of media,
(bloodshot eyes)
hoping to get
just one glimpse
of you.
Is this an act
of desperation,
longing?
Or,
am I waiting for you
to die?
I fantasize, darling,
of your lungs
like two misshapen vases
filled to the brim
with heavy tumors,
your throat
overgrown with poisonous vines
air trapped in crevices,
your body convulsing
in fits of finality.
I dream, dear,
of your car
crinkled like an accordion,
shattered glass from windows and bottles,
foam dripping from
mouth to chin,
your body draped over
the deflated airbag.
And therapists and family and friends and lovers and strangers and everyone
tell me to
get over it,
and I will
when you are dead.
