i miss you and it makes me write sentimental poetry when i swore i would not do that anymore. i spit into a leaf, roll up the sides and chop it on the cutting board. this is the fastest way to dismantle. i serve you the soup but i don’t invite you to dinner and i say i am sorry, i can’t help it. that much is true. and then i throw everything into the compost and there are great heaps of things that i expect the worms will consume but they don’t. they complain that the newspaper is soggy and the ink is in their brains and they don’t want to read about drones and new secret political policies being revealed anymore and i tell them get it together stop being so sentimental this isn’t the time. but when is the time. i match the corners of the bedspread to the corners of the bedroom and i sit in the middle on the floor and when i rock, the wood creaks under my weight and essentially, we are singing. this is what it is like to miss you. outside my window there are sirens probably the police they patrol this neighbourhood night and day and i wonder how it feels to sleep on car seats and mattresses stuffed full of tax dollars just to patrol poverty and socioeconomic statuses that stutter when they speak ’cause they’re so embarrassed. i hate the sound of sirens wailing, it being obvious, it being splashed red. i smooth the hair on my legs and arms and i press my palm to all the obvious places, the forehead, the heart, the ribs, and i lie down and if i listen closely i can hear the worms in the kitchen, shimmering between headlines, trying to get to the bottom but it’s a long way and they are on a hunger strike and i think i ought to eat them, if we’re going to get anywhere at all, that is.