falling out of

the end of your arms is such
a lonely place to be. and i
have friends, we keep in touch.
i can’t even seem to forget
a time when i wasn’t in love
with your face or your soft and slimy
and blood-filled heart. and the last time
i felt
anything
i was in your arms in the dark
or in the womb
in a million half-lived lives
where i didn’t
love you,
and in each and every one
i turned out
just fine.