It’s been weeks since I’ve
picked up a pen and my journal has withered up
like my heart this past november

because this drug that you are
only becomes more addicting every time I print your name
in every color pencil I own

and when I speak it
I hum an involuntary song that the world has yet to know
this morning was one of those mornings

when I debated burying my phone
for I will not risk my own dignity ringing you again while I’m sure you’re
plotting ways to fill my brain with toxic waste

so your texts will go nowhere
but closer to hell and my only reply will be from earthworms
moving through dirt and hitting the keyboard

like all those times
when you called me up drunk saying you missed the way I smell
of clean sheets and summer

than the next day hearing
your voice hungover and telling me you dialed the wrong number when
the only name your heavy breathe spoke was mine

well guess what
now I use a new perfume
and something tells me you would hate it