There is the bittersweet milky blue skin of your neck, 

Flesh and stone at the same time. 

The dark hair curling its fingers down the nape of your neck, the corners of your body. 

I always thought of you as more beautiful than I. 

My graceless form, a resting place, a stopover, 

A tangent from the straight line of where you were meant to be. 

Oh, I tried to make you stay, 

Lost sleep building anchors, 

Whispering the word home into the seashell curve of your ear at night. 

I even let you taste the sour, rotting parts of me. 

Hopeful, even then, my honesty would earn me something. 

But you spit me out and wiped your mouth and never looked at me the same. 

I came down with the flu and never saw you again.
I made myself sick with knowing 

That this was more of a goodbye than either of us knew.