Two fingers in the glass you gave me, not the good
stuff but the okay stuff just in case. A panic attack tamped
down as long as you don’t call again. It’s not about separating
the broken parts out like chaff; that morning in the hotel
is load-bearing trauma, the lies I wanted to believe spit
through your perfect teeth. Everything is terrible
and I can’t stop missing you no matter how much
I hate myself. My heart closed tight as a fist shoved
into pocket, I throw back the glass and ignore the rug
you bought me, the shoes, the pile of unworn clothes by my bed.
It really ties the place together. The sky is heating up, finally.
I can sit on the balcony and watch the world come alive.
I am nodding off, trying to wake from the dream of you.
