Withoutness
The dent in my car does not pop out with a plunger.
The squirrels eat all of my chamomile.
I cannot manage to hold JT after we have sex.
Tim, there is so much that I cannot do.
I want the night drive to fuse us like a skull around a grapefruit.
I want a new apartment where my sternum used to be.
And I wish I could get myself to kiss David.
And I wish I weren’t so angry at myself for sleeping in.
There is so much wrong with me.
There is so much wrong and yet
it all decides to stay with me. Thank you for staying.
I will text Quinn about how I still love him.
The wrongness and I will fall
asleep together, shaking.
Thanks
After Maurice Riordan
Of boys, ugly. Of relationships, informal. Of heartaches, yes.
Of tools, wrenches. Of wrenchings, gut. Of love songs, exhaustion.
Of alonenesses, when someone has just left, or when someone is about to arrive.
Of years, our years. Of errands, the pharmacy. Of alleys, where you found me.
Of fires, your backyard. Of areas, the ventral tegmental, or Hyde Park.
Of sleeps, a mattress on the floor. It’s just always like that.
Of approaches to water, running, together. Of hinges, tearing them off.
Of bottles, green and adult, or orange and childproof. Of senses, non, or touch.
Of swings, those in Evanston, or by my aunt’s new home. Wherever you’d go with me.
Of decisions, those presumed inconsequential. Of delusions, those wearing pink hats.
Of hallucinations, those shadowy boys not yet taken form. Of boys, you, of course.
Of cries, in the front row, the bassist staring down. Remember? Of feelings, happiness.
Of feelings, together. Of coffee, bedside, from your hands, after my bad night.
Of utensils, spoons. Of spoons, our last Tuesday together.
Of separations, only sleep, only sleep.
