#person 11

and i’ll bury my sins in steamed milk like that fateful tepid night i called you forcing the tipping point of no return masking the acidity of departure with salt on our faces

and i’ll bury my sins in steamed milk  like on the evenings you called with a sandwich and a story but the bluetooth brie and apples and fig jam were a poor facsimile of the cider and fireball kisses of autumns past

and i’ll bury my sins in steamed milk like the weekends you wanted to wrap yourself in my arms though all i wanted was peace and quiet i would have made you better coffee

if i had just

slowed