The taste of slow tequila, sharp and sour
That vinegar-acidic, honey-bitter
Brush of fingers, always marking our
Time together. Now, you say you fit her
Much better than a blanket, warm and lilac,
You call and say, “I think you have my blender
Still at your place.” I never said goodbye back
When you first left. Sometimes I just pretend her
Bed is empty. There’s nights I’ll cry, then bury
My head inside your pillow and your vinyl.
Don’t worry, I’m still laughing at When Harry
Met Sally and at kittens and that final
     Time I saw you dance to Beatles’ Getting Better
     While I was making breakfast in your sweater.