Howard Firkin
The days I ache for you are bad.
My joints ache. Bones distort with pain.
I see through bubble wrap: all shapes
are indistinct. The days I wait
for you are bad. My speech is slurred
and thickly stupid. Finding words
to fit into their sentences
is worse than folding fitted sheets.
The days I cry for you are bad.
I slash my eyes. I dry retch tears
for you. I’d pull my eyeballs from
my head before I’d ever look
into your eyes again. The days
I’m nauseous are bad because
I never vomit you. The days
I think of you are bad. The days
we might have been together, those
are bad days in my calendar.
I know when those days come: I ache.