The pain comes up every now and then
With a semi-religious regularity
Like a fucking planet in the sky
Around an angelic bright star.

Feels like you lost your limb
The feeling of not dialing a familiar number
A million better things beckon you
And your phantom limb keeps dialing.

Sometimes you throw up
Wanting to purge the number
Little do you realise
That the number is your mucous, not your fucking food.