Baby, We’ll Be Fine

You let the “how are you” hang in the IM window like a coughing rabbit no one pets or picks up. Our relationship grows gangrenous after I played Confederate field surgeon, the Facebook relationship status update a rusty saw; I gave you no bit or whiskey to dull the first cut.

I feed the apologies nesting in my stomach slivers of hotel key cards. I’ll give them to the one who will know how to say hello, how to go down like Tanqueray, grenadine, and tonic, how to miss you.

by J. Bradley

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