Wordle #68

Week 68

Your unshaven face accumulates

As flotsam in the wince of my smile.

I’ve a predilection for problems

Their development, their pithy reconciliations,

Sex that ends with rictus and begins with fire.

I knew that you were a caitiff, a roving truck.

I knew that whatever we planted

Would not grow because saplings

However, intent do not thrive in wreckage

I knew that you would dump me

In favor of an uncomplicated brevity

But as I watch you scuttle away

I realize that I never had the courage

To want for anything more.