“Why can’t we be friends” he asks.
“It doesn’t seem right, we’ve known each other so long.”
I have come to love the smell of things ending,
a fresh and steely cut
like blood and lemon and salt
air that stings your face, in a good way,
reminds you you’re alive, pulled from
a sandy Madras beach, this side of the water,
reminding you what you were promised:
waves, current, a crimson moon, calling blood
between your legs that lets you grow a tail.
Magic and stem cells.
Poetry and goodbye spells.
“Why can’t we still meet for coffee dates?”
He is sitting on a rock.
He is looking around.
“Where did you go?”
All my answers are tired fish,
swimming in my mouth.
I’m not sure which to send. They are
tiny and busy cleaning my teeth.
“Ok, let’s stay friends” I call from under the waves.
All tears in the ocean is just salt water.
My voice is gravel, sea floor taste,
it moves slow through the waves,
like whalesong, like narwhal memories with their
silly tusks, (sharp memory, like lemon juice landing on a cut:
a hand massage and feet too – did I say thank you?) my voice
lands like a happy bubble on his face, pops, and he laughs.
I laugh too.
I have learned to be gentle when I leave,
generous in my lies, so they feel honest.
Not everyone loves the smell of things ending:
blood and lemon and salt is an acquired taste.