Olvidaste

why?
hold out your arms, they're
swollen, lined with red and tacky
sticking to the cotton; i
touch and then words
tumble out of your lips
syllable over consonant, raw and
rough and wrong, a dozen
hand-picked clichés
that work less every time,
no one believes them.

we don't own a cat
no stairs, you don't
shave with a razor to
make lines like that:
i know the look in your mirror-lined eyes.
an uncomfortable silence, now,
we're clinging to the comfortable
misery. the kind
where slamming doors and
shaking hands feel (uncomfortably)
like promises.

catch you in the bathroom
cloudy and mumbling
something, no,
you're not feeling guilty.
are you?

excuses must feel so natural now.
a million that i'll never trust;
will i ever be able to believe you?