four parts

I

the dull burning of a cigarette

you lit between my parted lips,

the unfamiliar softness of your kiss.

if one day you’d listen,

i’d tell you how quiet that night was,

of the few men i have loved,

of all the men who have loved me.

you wouldn’t ask

how far they are from me 

now.

II

there are seven names for your eyelashes

that i have collected in the following months,

several more for the delicate 

hair that never grew when i held you.

and now in your eyes

there is an emptiness when you look at me;

you don’t recognize me anymore, 

or maybe you just didn’t

then.

III

what a shame,

we are always in this bed

either having it

or having it out

you leave your lighters on my floor,

don’t move when i rustle the sheets,

your cue to go.

i breathe a sigh of relief every time

you leave, a blue elephant

lifted from my soul

so that now i can finally be free

if only 

i could 

find my 

keys.

IV

the clinking of glass marks

our final destination, a departure from

the sobriety we tried to make with each

other.

“i’ll just have a diet coke” doesn’t work for us.

i need to feel less

when i’m with you, numb my bones with cheap red wine,

drink until my taste buds bleed,
till i feel no hunger,
no thirst,
no loneliness,
nothing essential.

till there is nothing but this hollow,

empty,

yellow

yearning.