Standing in the kitchen with my right heel pressed into the enclave just above my left kneecap. Standing over the sink eating sections of nectarines and olives in three different colors. I wish each pit I pulled from my mouth was every kind thing you ever said to me. I can pry them from my tongue as easily as you could lie through your teeth. I drop them into the trashcan watching each fragmented sentence disappear. I spend each night standing over the kitchen sink until the wine and the angle make me numb and each morning ignoring the stabbing talon you forgot to extricate from the bottom left corner of my abdomen the afternoon you left too suddenly.