friche

a poem for a lover in august

longing is sitting two feet across a table that somehow
seems too far to reach out and touch his hand.
watching him talk to another girl on tinder i had a chill
of realization that i’m not special at all.

he’s a blend of energy i know well,
the same fast on the inside that i feel in my belly.
reality bites and hard with its molars. i’m not surprised:
all the girls in new york are shiny and new.

yes, i miss him and yes, i know. even though I held the
ashes of his name in my hand i keep remembering
with a jolt in my stomach him squeezing my knee
underneath the table at my favorite bar.

i’m plagued by her. she’s my foggy reflection in the
bathroom mirror; a picture of me looked at from
far away. i wonder if she knows about me. i wonder
if her eyes also look like moss.

i wonder if he thinks of the life inside me that belonged
to him. does he want to know what it was like in that
white room when the darkness closed on me? does he
want to know that all i remember is an echo of his voice?

i have another lover now, who speaks like the low
hum of a generator. he touches me like i’m made of
dough with hands made of leather. i can’t stop
myself from looking at your instagram.

i guess it wasn’t just right. for once it might not mean
something. you told me you were tired of getting hurt;
i was just a visitor and i apologized for leaving my
fingerprints on the glass. i think of you often.