John

there’s a piece of me

living in that empty apartment

wondering

if the floor still smells like attic must

and the water scalds the silken skin

off your skeleton

when i’m alone

i wonder if you’re asked

“what happened to her?”

and if it

rattles the chambers of your heart

while my ghost

grows in the amnion of your ideas

and feasts upon the fruit

of your endorphins.

i wonder if the motions

of moving on

can be completed

by the killer,

or if, in casual conversation,

you still chug your beer

and tear me down

another time