He fucking jumps out a window
every night for your happiness.
He lands on the pieces of
glass knowing that it will
feel better than the words
that come from your throat.

The blood running from his
shattered face is warmer than
the tears he used to shed for you.
He prays that they forgot under the covers.
When he curls up at night
looking at the past
spread out onto his bed,
thinking, "what if she wasn't there?",
would those butterflies
stop gnawing on his esophagus?
He calls out your name when
there are six feet of his life left.
Then you finally call back.