I can’t wait for the day when I don’t think of you,
when I feel acid rain pouring on my face like fiery fingers and tears,
or when curls bounce around my face like the phone cord in the first house I remember,
or drink cinnamon orange tea and write forty pages of gender theory.
I can’t wait for the day when I don't remember you won’t message back,
and I’m left on read like a newspaper reporter without a following,
or when brandy and coffee doesn’t smell like your breath or how I thought you’d taste.
Because fiery tears are acid rain on my cheeks
that won’t burn the scattered pieces of you away.