I am picking off the nail polish
from our last date together
and thinking of you
and how everything has changed
since I painstakingly painted
the color on my fingernails
and tried to have the patience
for it to dry
so I wouldn't **** it up
and everything could be perfect.
But everything disintegrates:
the paint chipped off
until there were only ugly blotches of pink
on my pale, pale fingers
and I grew obsessed with picking off the rest,
erasing the evidence of effort.