on the kitchen sink
drip
drip
drips
all night. I feel the water
trickling
down
into
my ear
into my skull
and my brain can’t stop swimming
or it will drown.

Coping
is better than the alternative.
Usually.
The codeine helped my cough but
now the bottle’s dry and that same goddamn
drippy faucet is the heavy
tick
of a grandfather clock as
time becomes
quicksand
and I still can’t stop
swimming but the more I struggle
the faster I sink.

3 am and the
drips
are mortar shells
shrieking down.
Every impact louder than the last, until finally
I peel the curtain and look out the window.
I want to catch
the white
hot
end.
If it’s all I can do, I want
to see it coming.

I don’t know if anyone
has ever been so careful
not to hurt me. It’s strange how
that’s what broke my heart.

They say after seven years,
every cell in your body
has been replaced. I know
it doesn’t really work like that.

But it was about seven years
gone when I realized I couldn’t
feel you in me anymore.
Seven years and then

you had never touched me.
Happiness is not supposed to be
painful. My friend told me
the story of her first love.

Electric fix. Talking on the beach
until five in the morning.
Some foolhardy, euphoric
certainty. It sounded nice.

Seven years have passed, and I
share our tragic little stories
like they’re jokes. No part of us
is left. It’s just me here, and you

somewhere else. You apologized,
and I forgave you. I don’t remember
your smile or your voice. I don’t
remember how tall you are.

I don’t even really remember
why I loved you,
although
I remember that I did.

She was gentle with me,
and I wasn’t prepared for that.
Kindness is not
supposed to break your heart.

I think you taught me
how to love, but I think
you taught me
wrong.

You know me. I’m always a strike away
from burning it all down. Me and my matchstick promises. 
But if I work hard and don’t set things on fire,
maybe I can own a plastic house too.

This house was made to be sold. Not to be lived in.
In the foyer, one of those scented plug-ins screams
over stagnant air. We sip on wine that tastes like
polyester around a gas firepit that doesn’t hiss or crack
or burn. It gurgles like a fish tank. Michael tells me that they
want to install overhead lights in the bedrooms.

We blow out the candles, so we can keep getting older.
Do you remember Skylar’s 19^th birthday party at her dad’s?
The forest green house in Reseda with the pool? I love Skylar.
Because she’s never gonna get her shit together.
I remember it was all of them, and it was me and you.
And I was sippin’ on an adios that tasted like blue –
a drink that was made to fuck you up. Not to be enjoyed.

Years ago, when Michael was still a renter, he invented
the Au Revoir, Rat Bastard – a Long Island, but
instead of coke, you float some Bordeaux.
I never could remember falling asleep after a night of ARRBs,
but I remember waking up. Rode hard and put away wet.

Skylar and the rest went inside to cut the cake.
But you and I sat on the edge with our feet in the water.
Sapphire flames climbed the walls of the pool.
They danced between our toes. And we fell
into the blue. And I wasn’t me, and you
weren’t you, and our future wasn’t plastic.

One time I slept an entire year. And on my next birthday,
I refused to blow out any candles. Everyone sang,
then I just watched the flames
glide down the wicks
like pole dancers.

Strike me, and I’ll ignite. I’m waiting for it.
I think I want to be nothing
because nothing can be anything.

Skylar got her master’s degree last year.
Michael bought a house.
You married that ordinary boy and moved away.
Abby doesn’t know – you never told her.
(Don’t tell her.)

All my friends left by 9pm, and I’m here.
Just me and a birthday cake covered in wax.

Before
you opened
the
box,
the cat
was alive.

Don’t you feel
like a fool?

like split earth. Then
the condo is rubble,
and you are gone.

He loves burying
Hope’s bone.
You don’t know

when it will happen.
It happened,
and you didn’t think it would.

You wake up and find
your dog’s body
in the corner of the yard.

He’s standing on your porch
at 3 am in his stiff
uniform and pleated slacks.

He’s in the watchtower. He
might be looking at you.
He might not be.

You stare into the cosmic
horror. You drink an entire pot
of decaf coffee. You paint a flower

with a spatula. You dig a hole
in the yard for the dog’s ashes
and say, “I feel better now.”