I never understood heartbreak
thinking that would be
a selfish love
if everyone is still alive
existing elsewhere
as lovely as ever.

I later found we are not ourselves--
I was not myself
wrapped up and folded into you
seamless under blankets, only adjacent
to the sofa backing and mattress.

When I decided to leave that night
I felt us break as slow and ponderous
as Pangea, I felt our distinctive ends
begin. A part of me would not survive
and I certainly killed something.

Punch drunk at the hotel
he leaned against the elevator door,
you are pushing my buttons.

Buttons?

Back to reality
I told him and we slipped into
our respective double beds.

The next day he asked why I didn’t stay.
I couldn't sleep.

I didn’t tell him, I felt my heartbeat--
my body upright on the
dark mattress.

My phone lit,
texting a sleeping friend
and telling her I’m leaving here.

Into a familiar old morning,
punch drunk.

I'm still learning your English.  
I put more weight into the pauses
because silence
is what I am accustomed to.  
I can go for days
without a word
and you have gone longer.  
Our last conversation
was another apology.  We exist in
in our withdrawals. Pockets
of interactions we run out of.
I am akin to your back alleys,
your dealings with men
without you saying a word.
Do you also know I sit
around the corner--
coping, too.