If I confessed that I missed you, it would be a betrayal of when I had vowed you’d stay with me always, a tincture in the blood, a rupture somewhere deep in the ventricles that clench shallowly, crippled by your presence or the absence of. In lamentations, my poor heart and me are such willing victims who bare their jugulars at your pleasure or mercy, tethered on life-support by your eye’s whimsy: a moment’s gleaming and passing.