I haven’t written one word about you.
You, the source, the spring-head, the furled
man that lives in the corner of a *****
motel where salty sand meets asphalt.
I haven’t told you I’m a writer, that I want
to write until my hand is mush and the paper
is covered with my slime memories.
Like the humor, choler, fire. The yellow
fire of your beer spilled on the glass
coffee table; the orange fire of the hot
dish soap water cleaning out the stingray
sting (Mom was so mad); the red fire
of your red-neck in the sun by the rusty
fenced-in pool. I haven’t told you I don’t
miss you, or that I do.

its really weird to see the handwriting of those you used to know. and to see their email, read their syntax and know they will never write you again. maine wasn’t the same with out her, and everyone knew it and we didn’t even talk about it. not that i was going to be the first person to bring it up, and i sort of wanted to avoid it anyway, because i was being so good about not crying for a while. papa was the only one that said something and he said it to me on the porch with just us. it had dropped twenty degrees and i wasn’t wearing socks and he came right over, a little drunk maybe, and told me that he didn’t think he’d find happiness after all that, but being in york with us makes it that much easier to believe that time will change that. then he patted my head, called me dan and went back inside.

when they're underwater.
How can you think with all that stuff
on top of you?
You can't even breathe.
You're not even breathing.

We were in your car,
I was wearing yellow see-through underwear
and you still had all your clothes on. The idea
of taking all mine off made you nervous.
I could tell by the amount of times you snapped
my skin while your embarrassed fingers tried
to take off my bra.

I could hear the cicadas outside when your heavy
breathing was masked by my own mouth covering
yours. My hair, that had once been in a well-brushed
bun, stuck to my temples, forehead and back of the neck,
where I got chills thinking about what we were doing.

I took off your plain white t-shirt and you hit
your head on the roof of your forest green Saturn.

Now I just keep thinking about your loud fan creaking
through your ceiling. How in the dark, we pull at each
other’s bodies under a heavy comforter, with no sheet.

There are too many pillows on your bed. A detail I once found
endearing, convinced you held onto them when you missed me.
But even with my back turned to you, front facing the wall, you
held on to those stupid pillows while I kicked the extras onto the floor.

It's not what we talk about,
lying face to face,
pillow to pillow,
but the feeling I get with
the white-light speckled
across your already
freckle-speckled cheeks,
feeling that this is it:
no one will ever witness
this world wonder ever again,
where you are one
hundred percent mine.

my grandfather will walk me
down the aisle.
I don't want an upset,
but you had made the decision.
You never gave yourself to me,
so why should I let you throw
me away to another man
that has all the potential of you?

I am not getting married.
I am not writing vows or eating
cake or throwing flowers.
I am learning that it wasn't
all your fault, but mine too.

And there was your love,
stuck between the sheets and under
the bookshelf and behind my ears.
Though it couldn't get much worse,
you went on about your mother
and her calloused ways
and I was reminded of my father
and his calloused hands.
Once you begged me to stay -
hidden in your dresser drawer so you
could use me for when you
needed to feel like a person again.
There wasn't a time where I thought
I couldn't love you.
But there was your love,
blown around the room like dandelion parts
and I thought it couldn't get much worse.