what is this useless bleeding? love is my wound, so it can’t be so bad right. you said this was wrong, that i promised never to write the break up poem, that this must be composed and decomposed in broken parts, that it is written in a language i don’t know how to speak yet, that somewhere there is a discussion between us of how it is raining in toronto and drying venice, how i wear water like a windshield whipper in a snowstorm, how it has been about two years since i kissed your elbow, how when i did i mistook it for ice cream, how you never liked ice cream anyways, how i told you that absolutes were foolish, how you argued about the justice of a court system built on the lack of it, how you told me to be better, to think better, how i did, slowly, thinking what you were doing, and you were, rapidly, with others. what did their blood do? what was the use of it all? how did their elbows weep?