I hold the thunder 
of you leaving
in my stomach.

like some broken 
limb that I’ve swallowed.

How will I measure all of my 
The dripping
of stomach acid, 
the throaty pulse 
of absence?

A loss of sweat- 
miasma of foggy ribbon
draping over the headboard
to pull tightly 
until there’s no oxygen.

Now you are clenching 
all of your fingers 
and curling them over 
as though they’re holding 
a flower.

I will stay in the gradual 
undulation of a wineglass
harboring some serpentine
wish to be somebody else.

Until the loss of sweat 
is a miasma of foggy ribbon
wrapped tightly around my neck,
stealing all of my oxygen.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated Andrea Dreiling’s story.