The eidolon of love has taught me how to kill
and you have made me merciless.
The space between was a narration of
who could love less. I struck you silent with
a sliver of cut-glass in your sleep,
without wanting to. And I sat in my second-chance car
fighting with my hands about whether to hold you or not.
With our mouths and their inward emergencies,
Love isn’t what we were good at.
You are my last and generous Stockholm.