you know what’s fucked up?

that you can be without someone for six months, a year, five years and have mastered not thinking about them, but no matter how much time passes there will always be that moment where you see a photo of them or catch a little of their cologne on a crowed street and suddenly you’re plagued with a rapidly sinking stomach and the relentless question, “what did i do wrong?”

"I like how you just live here
You walk in
“Just went to the store”
“Now I’m cooking”
Not even talking to me while I study…
It’s pretty perfect,”
She says, before answering the phone
After I walk in
It’s her girlfriend
The one that demands monogamy
And is moving in in two months
And yet I am the one with whom there is no such thing as two much time spent.
Who lives in her house.
Who cooks her dinner.
Who loves her more than enough to let her go.
Only after I have packed her bags, her lunch, and her good luck note on a napkin sealed in lipstick, maybe

Cherry Guts Pt 2

For the record, she said it first. She said it late, and it was everything I needed if I was a field in drought and the storm brought only lighting and no rain: swollen clouds bursting to beams of white fire striking from the sky. But it wasn’t so dramatic, no flash, in the dark. It was quiet and accidental, the sound of her shutting the door a little too loudly, and leaving it unlatched so it swings back open at each gust of thought.

She’s the one who says forever, and notices when I can’t say it back, because she says friends first and I’m not past the passion with which she grabbed my face and pulled me close before the real rainstorm. I choke next to her not under her now, my cherry guts seeping out sitting spilt on the cement, a slow sunny burn without the telltale smoke but all the evidence of just how much she really means to me.