Call me in the afternoon,
When your hair has turned that familiar dust dark and your mouth
is a crescent moon.
Call me Wednesday,
lips leaking words like comets
spiralling across the sky,
and your voice
a black hole to be swallowed by.
When there is nothing you’d rather do with your time
than spin stories on the end of my sighs.
fucking call me.
Cause I miss you.
And I’m an unfinished poem without