Fruit flies on the ceiling,
Tiny wings beat my feelings.
Overripe words we left unsaid,
Rot in the bowl of the bed.
I swat at the dark, you hum along,
A compost love song, sour and strong.
Tomorrow they’ll hatch again—
Baby regrets in the bruise of the rain.
We’re just mold on forgotten jam,
Buzzing the shape of who I am.