Late Night Pollution One hour ago, you told me I was nothing. You sent it in a text, the message ricocheting off some satellite in space, And I was embarrassed knowing the stars had seen your words to me. Forty-six minutes ago, you told me you were sorry. Your voice seeped through the speakers of my phone like smog, Laced with a familiar, deep irony that sent chills up my spine. Thirty-one minutes ago, you asked if you could see me. I sighed because imagining your presence made my throat burn, And yet my hands still buzz with the thought of holding yours. Nineteen minutes ago, you said you wanted your shirt back. I threw it away but your scent still lingers under my fingernails, My skin itching with the knowledge that I can't scrub your impressions off of me. Seven minutes ago, you promised you were clean. But I know you still search for answers at the bottom of every bottle, And in every cloud of smoke you exhale from your damaged lungs. One minute ago, you stumbled to my door. I can hear my name on your tongue in the night air, permeating my thoughts, And I wonder if the blade against my veins will make you go away.