What Year Is It?

your absence
hungout with me
all weekend.

turned my
blood to spicy
bloody marys,

burned me
like the
sun did.

I am the
lobster.

asking the
amputated limb
if it hurts

is just silly.

the amputee,
maybe sillier.

after you
consent to
cautering
a part of
you off

you don’t
feel it
hurting.

[“its for
the best,”

he said]

the absence,
I hear,
is its own
experience.

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