You were always shocked
when I would ask questions
that to you were seemingly
unnecessary,
trivial,
purposeless,
by your harsh definition.

Like you favourite colour.
Orange, you said.
When I wanted to know if your preference
leaned more towards sunsets
or fire
or tamer things,
you told me to stop asking so many questions.

It was orange, that was all.

When you bought flowers
I was surprised to see that they were pink.
It might not have mattered, but it got me thinking
about how much you don’t care to know.
Little things speak volumes,
but you disregard them.
Because it is easier to fall in love
on a superficial level,
but I crave depth.
So here I am in small pieces:

I take my coffee black.
I like to do crosswords in the paper like an old person,
and I can’t finish most of them.
I have terrible vision but refuse to wear glasses.
In quiet moments, I talk with myself like an old friend
and it is a strange illusion.
I collect business cards,
stones,
feathers,
teapots,
and strangers.
I like fridge magnets
and no sound can ****** me
quite like a good song can.
I cry when I'm angry.
I write bad poetry.
I love to laugh.
I’m a terrible swimmer.

I hate the colour pink.

You should have known that much.
At the very least, you should have wanted to.
When it comes to love my dear,
you have a lot to learn.

-Emma Cooper

There’s a red neon vacancy sign
that hangs in my ribcage
settled among vital inner workings.
Its electric buzzing company to the rhythm
of blood through my veins.

A forgotten motel heart,
containing only rundown furniture.
Black spots on the walls.
They are painted a peculiar colour
that is no longer in fashion.
Perhaps it never was.

- Emma Cooper

How many miles have you stretched between us?
Sometimes I think we are continents apart, not hours.
Maybe you’re sailing the Indian ocean
while I reach the sunny peak of a mountain.
Maybe you’re sipping fine French wine
while I trek jungles.
Perhaps you are airborne,
and I am six feet under.
Do you worry that’s the closest we’ll ever be?
Our bones packed into boxes,
with only a few feet of Earth between us?
Will you whisper secrets to me then?
In death, will you evade me too?

Went to Vincent’s again.
There’s a Charles Bukowski poem
trapped in a tombstone
inked on his ribs.
Bluebird.
He put a broken record on.

Sat across from him,
drinking.
“I’ve never met a girl that likes old-fashioneds.”
His heroes stared strangely,
judgmental portraits glaring
from frozen white walls.

It was Joni Mitchell’s birthday.
A text from Vincent, unread.
“I’ve looked at love from both sides now.”

Put the glass down.
Go home.

You left wildflowers on my doorstep.
They were wrapped in newspaper.
I read the headlines,
did the crossword,
and left them to wilt.

The girl you loved disappeared last night.
She stepped off the curb and vanished.
Following pulsing pavement,
reaching towards a green light
like Gatsby across the water,
she slipped away somewhere between streets.
Got tangled up in a stranger’s sheets.

Went home without her,
weighing less.
She used to lay awake and think of you
singing Barry White in the shower
and calling her baby,
but not since last night.
She became a fog
that glistened like snow in streetlamps
or a molten metal rain.
Slowly, she gathered herself into a backbone,
and cemented to my spine.

We crawled out of the pools
of your quicksand irises,
and walked away.
You called her name as we crossed the bar,
but when I turned around
you did not recognize me.