Our faces are screensavers. My favorite flavor is tobacco on an empty stomach; yours is bit-tongue blood. We’ve mastered the art of inaudible temper tantrums. We’ve learned and forgotten how to love that to which we’ve grown accustomed. Burnt leaves spill from my fingertips onto the porch you swept this morning while I slept off my hangover, where I live off the Camel Crushes I bum, and the glances I steal from pretty strangers. You shredded all the evidence for or against your own unfaithfulness, used it as packing foam. Every box I open is another can of worms; it takes everything I have not to kneel down and comb through the mess of orphan syllables with my bare hands. Soon that mess will have touched all my things, and it will take everything I have not to leave.