In the more articulate of tongue they call it sorrow.
The bee always pauses before it stings;
that’s why the taste of honey is so bitter-
because for a split second, the instant between pain and not-pain
was infinitesimal.
And oranges separate from their skins akin to the sense
in which you constantly wished to part ways with yours,
making shadow caves beneath the sheets because you
were afraid of feeling the light, and realizing you loved it.
I was always transcriber of your loneliness, did my best
to put it into gestures and a circle of my arms around you,
held you steadfast and whole.
You wanted to burn, you said.
In the way phoenixes do, only without the part concerning resurrection.
At travel stops, the phone connection always breaks up between us.
Similar to how a couple breaks up, with a dropped call,
the love fading like the signal fades.
One of them wishing the other would speak
but knowing they can’t.
I wanted to understand your dark moods, how they made you feel small
like a thumb blotting out the moon,
but even the moon
didn’t know what to do.