She tells her psychiatrist she feel in love with death on a Tuesday when she was in line for a tall vanilla latte.
Ashes and fallen angels aren’t romantic, but she’s only looking for a one-night stand. She’s only looking to lose herself in inky blackness.
Here are all the things she’s forgotten:
kisses swollen with want,
lemon meringue pie,
dazzling starlight instead of dreams at midnight.
Some mornings she can’t stop apologizing to the bus driver, her mother, all the exes she hasn’t deleted from her contacts list, the damp autumn sky,
whispering, I’m sorry for never having enough change, showing up late to dentist appointments, licking chapped lips, I’m sorry for loneliness.