When texts, that used to
feel so mundane, so commonplace,
an unconscious reflex that took
no amount of effort:
“You got a package.”
“Can you open it?”
Now these moments have become
an avenue to connect to you,
a mediocre excuse to get
a minuscule response.
To feel that glorious sensation of nuance.
Like an addict tipping the last
drops of alcohol
to her adoring lips,
sucking that cigarette to its filter,
I will take every last drop, last
drag of you I can get.
Because I know there will come a day
where at last there is nothing else
left to say.
When the mail stops coming,
and the reasons to message begin to dwindle,
and I am forced to sit in the
silent darkness, desperately
waiting for morning to come,
so I can get clean, and begin anew.
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