Ink and Bone

The crunch of your toast is a metronome

counting down the minutes until I leave.

Across the table, the air in this home

is a fabric so thin I can feel the weave.

I’m writing this down on a grocery list

because my throat closes up when you look my way.

There’s a violent kind of quiet in my fist,

holding back the things I’m too tired to say.

The ballpoint skips on a smudge of butter,

a greasy patch where the truth won't take.

I have a whole lifetime of words left to utter

about how much of my heart was a mistake.