The Bugs Don't Matter

We tell each other stories
contained within the veins
the backs of leaves

You forget the holes
on purpose because
the bugs don't matter

I am not interested in
the lies, the lacy, elegant leaf
Instead, I read the braille

of what's missing, the silence
implied: we are not friends
We care not for directness,

only poetry, only the leaves
we pluck, only the implied
goodbyes, rounded edges

of what's missing