What if I started calling you what you really are? Here are some possibilities:
the ashtray taste in my mouth after three cigarettes
the calculations of how tired I’m likely to be when my alarm goes off at seven in the morning without you
that acid taste when my heart climbs up my throat with the alcohol
the gnawing crawling insomnia that’s partly about you but can certainly be traced back to thinking about the way you smile when your face is really close to mine
the potential liver failure or at least what my liver has been processing straight into my bloodstream every hour
the warm hum when I turn my truck on to drive you home--you’ve stopped asking me, I always drive you home, but you don’t call me chauffeur. In fact, you pointedly don’t call me anything but my name, my whole ******* name
your arms tightening around me in the back seat and your face--your smile--pressed against my shoulder
your throat when you swallow Fireball like it doesn’t burn you inside out (you burn me inside out)
you apologized to me twice and I know you don’t apologize
the queen of wands the queen of wands the queen of wands
the fact that all my pooled, vague desire has started calling you by name. I’ve never felt it say anyone’s name and it won’t stop talking about the small, quiet, beautiful things in my life that have everything and nothing to do with you