Where do words go when you lose them? Because I think I left mine in the crook of your neck the last time I destroyed you. They keep listening to the sound of you not loving me, and it’s not good, the way they look at me like they’re disappointed. Your skin is a red sea I tried to split open, and it’s my fault for believing in God the wrong way. If this doesn’t feel like poetry anymore, then promise you won’t take it. There are piles of apologies here, and I can’t stop being sorry about them. I hate when the right words are stuck in the wrong time zone. I’m flying out of this town tomorrow, and maybe I’ll land in a place where you don’t hate me yet. Promise to meet me there. Promise to make it feel like the first time, so we can both forget about the last.