Twist your tongue around my words, just to call me yours. You were already gone and so you left, and so you will leave again, and I will stay sitting here on stained couch cushions thin-skinned, milk-tip brimming, playing mind games with myself, as time weaves bones into baskets, wind turns rocks into sand. This is a textured kind of motherhood. To be honest, I never like to be, and you will cut off all your hair anyway, only to say in a fateful promise that someday and somed