there are moments we make decisions, unsure why,
perhaps following patterns of behavior, comforting ourselves with the familiar.
it was like that, on the porch, in his apartment, after it ended.
sex as a death rattle, deep in the chest,
the last breath of an already dead relationship.
there is a longing there, but not for that.
for explanations never given, apologies stuck in the throat
even now, envelopes remind me of all you were unable to provide.
silence familiar to me, from men who never learned how to live
from fathers who ran and never answered their little daughters’ questions
from you, unable to face yourself, and give those you tried to pull apart along the way
the truth you need, and they deserve.
silence as deafening as the last breath.