Line up and funnel air until they can’t speak, lie
blissfully quiet on the floor, fetal again,
tumultuous, wrapped in communal, platonic
love. It’s so freeing, one of them shouts into a stackable
set of measuring cups, to know my worth is unworthy
of measuring. In the booths lining the exterior they form
a protective barrier, write down the worst things
they think they’ve ever said on napkins embossed
with tiny dots in the shape of a flower. The flowers flatten
under the weight of things like I don’t know
if I love you or if you’re just like my mom, and If there was
a zombie apocalypse I would probably come back
for you, and I’m sorry I sneezed on you;
I forgot you were there. In the morning,
when all the ex-boyfriends are asleep on many
sleeping bags zipped together into one heroically
large and shiny floor that sings when you slide
your hand over it, one of the lovers who
succeeded them collects
the flattened flowers, sticks a pin
through & maps them
onto the wall in the breakroom, the ceiling,
in each locker of an ex-boyfriend, twirling
a beautiful opera of red thread through.