THE SPACE BETWEEN

REILLY BROWNING

A deep seeded guilt.

Nestled somewhere between my third and fourth rib,

Sickening and sour,

it migrates beneath my skin.

A promise.

Made somewhere between our third and fourth drink,

Superficial and stupid,

it slips past my lips.

A word.

Misplaced somewhere between the third and fourth sentence,

Profound and incidental,

it lingers in the air.

Neither of us sure what to make of it.

Somewhere between the hiccupped laughs,

And the hefty wheezes,

And the dangling participles,

A thought.

A word.

A promise.

Maybe I mean it,
And maybe you believe me.

But I don’t,
and neither do you.

So, we’ll have to pour a fifth drink.

And find a enough words
to make a few more promises,

just so there is something left to break.