Dark Chocolate

She smells like herself again,
all of me washed (I hope reluctantly)
away. We embrace with a hint
of the military, though who’s
the soldier, I couldn’t say.
Slow missile, I aim my car toward
the dark reaches of another state,
and begin to calculate my ETA,
absently lick my too-dry lips–
the last remnant of shared dark chocolate–sweet
and sharp on the tip of my tongue
which, avoiding collision–
I bite hard enough to bleed.

April Ossmann