I taste bitten fruit on his lips,
feel the disdain in my spine
recoiling to the tang and pang, and
the door looks inviting
with its wide open, space, its
air my lungs are in need of.
is it the day to end this atrophy
this pretension weathered by the
vicissitudes of nostalgic love.
Do I race for the threshold, or
stay and stain my lips too?