This Kitchen isn’t clean yet

My best friend’s name is beating
the back of my teeth,
burning my tongue
and flies have settled on the frontal lobe
of the song sung by my fingers
over yours.
Touch
Trap
gilded nose tips that buries secrets
on pulse points,
on breath of blood that jumps ship
when butterflies commandeer the hold.
You have macro thoughts,
yours despite content
mapped synapses frying
when just and reward lays dead at your feet.
I’ve spent too much time sweeping the kitchen
not to notice all the glass you left behind.
Every time I search the cupboards,
I find boxed excuses sitting on molding expectation.
Every time I gaze at the fridge,
I hear the backwards confessions of promise laced homicides.
You left on violent silence
and foundation still litters the floor.

When she walks into the kitchen
she only notices your shards as a hang-nail moment,
when she rummages through these cupboards
she finds interminable smiles next to the tomato soup,
brushing past myopic shadows as though they cease to exist.
She feels red and roses,
ignorant to prison shackles and cease-fires
hovering wasted on the tips of arrows
third shelf from the mayonnaise

In half eclipsed contacts, she tells me I have to learn to fly,
in half brave journeys, she never learns herself to try.
My best friend’s dreams are angled at my hips
tight-gripped misunderstandings
unable to identify wound
when she never cut herself on you
as I had.