Our eyes meet across the bar.
I look away.
When I look back,
there is someone else in your seat.
(I’m not sure you were ever really there.)
There was a time
when you were the first
person I looked for when I
entered a room
You were with me
like a daydream.
Your fingers caressed, squeezed, clawed
at me, my clothes, me
but your eyes
saw something else.
I saw her at the store the other day.
She was ahead of me in line
and I stared at her.
It took too long for me to recognize her.
She opened her mouth and I left
without buying anything.
Left my cart right there in the aisle.
I used to constantly remind you
to pick up your clothes, the groceries,
if you would have loved me
if I’d picked the movies,
anything that would have created a memory
you might miss.
You don’t miss me. You’re just
I’m lonely too. (I’m missing.)
I told you that I’d choose
my cat over you
and you laughed.
I can’t remember the sound of your laugh anymore
but I still miss him more than I miss you.
(I guess I wasn’t kidding.)
He slept beside my head
the day you left.
I slept too.
My tears had run out months before.
It took longer to realize that you’d never really been “here.”
There’s a drink on the counter.
The bartender said it’s there if I want it,
(You never learned to be sorry,
and I always told you it was okay.)
but I don’t want anything
he’s able to give me.