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I left you suspended in the air
as a single thought expelled
from a Southwest flight back from Oregon

Everything is suspended in the air –
the New York woman rushing through her beef sandwich to my left
the woman at the window seat writing
love letters to the woman who will pick her up at the airport

and the way I imagined landing on the same runway as you
back home, realizing sometimes
turbulence remains even after landing

realizing there is a reason we had the same destination
but flew at different times. So much so that
the New York woman next to me could be you
and I her beef sandwich – chewed quietly, regrettably
of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone

I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself

thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.

In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.

We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.

So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.
I came into the world early
spitting, screaming, clinging
already growing hair from
a blush colored birthmark on my scalp

my hair grows and I do too.
Outside I scrape my knee and
**** the blood from it, hoping
that will take the hurt away

I find the hurt years later
in front of a bar where a
handsome demon is offering
a whiskey, promising beauty and goodness

if I only drink his blood. Wait.
I've been here before. This is
my mother's dream. She drops
her spatula at the stove

when I tell her of it
in waking hours. Did you drink
it this time? Did you drink it?

She begs.

Yes mother - I drank his blood
then I came here and
went to bed.
The night exhales
loud, ***** coated breath and
on an inhale pulls me like
the tug of a cigarette filter

through flashing neons
pressed against a navy blue
                  wall and
                              button up shirt
of a Welsh boy

named Adam, who offers
a rib disguised as a dance and
out on Wind Street I stumble
the Eve of Swansea

with my American accent
the apple already tucked in my throat
You may think I don't remember
what my soul knows of
your coming and leaving, of
our hurting and forgiving

so that when I walk along
what might have been our place
in some distant life,
I shake hands with the hills,
offer a tired hug to the shore

and they know me and kiss my heels.
They ask me where you are, and
forgive me for admitting
you won't let me know

They tell me to go home
and love you anyway
which is what I do
content with my morning coffee
beneath a small robin blue club house
with a deck leading to a robin blue slide
and a wooden beam holding

three swings - that held
both of us, a baby doll
and many innocent summers

Now, the sandbox lid is left off,
its insides sacrificed to rain, the
club house adopted by wasps

the metal of the swings has rusted
the baby doll eternally tied to one
and the robin blue slide now

sun bleached in some spots
and cloaked with moss in others
is the only place

our adult bodies still fit
A door slams next door
and I hear my neighbor crying

I do not know her name
only the sound of her grief as it seeps through our walls

We are the only ones home
alone in our separate houses

so to save her shame
I decide to take a walk
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