she said maybe

these words
this patience
makes me sound phony
sweetheart
what really hurts now
is your disappearance
the things we never said
all the intrigue
the bullets of the self
poisoning my blood
I imagined you were the antibody
but you are gone now and this disease
sounds phony with its own
empty circular solution

I am
balanced on the tip of the pyramid
no one will give me the shove
which face will I slide down?
none of the above
all the words accumulate
in the will
a slow poison
the hours crowding
into this house