i get this sort of sickly feeling
every time july comes around
because with every summer day
that i realize that you’re
not here
comes the kind of sting that you feel
when you’re shaving your legs
and the blade nicks the thin layer of skin
on the back of your achille’s tendon.
you should be at my side
volunteering to herd the children
like cattle into the mess hall,
because you’re allergic to peanuts
and because i looked pretty.
you should be sitting across the
table from me at breakfast
not directly
diagonally; one seat to the right;
giving me a knowing smile every time you catch my eye.
you should be jokingly making fun of my
unshaved thighs
when really you don’t expect me to change them at all.
you should still be working with me
in the kitchen
doing trash rounds
in the garden, weeding in the blazing sun
while all of my insecurities drip down my skin
with the sweat beads that roll and race each other.
you should be trying to hold the camera steady
as your shoulders bounce lightly from your laughter,
deep chuckles and the occasional squeak due to a
voice crack
as i pick up chickens and sing to them,
and smile at the camera.
you should be apologizing to me
for your ex-girlfriend calling my phone
and requesting you,
even though it’s not your fault.
you should still be nestled against me,
your sad, fragile head resting in my lap,
as you ask me why you deserve what she does
and i tell you that you don’t
and gently rock your worries away.
you should be wrapping your arms around me,
not as a goodbye,
not as a hello,
not even as an i’ve missed you,
or an i’m sorry,
not as a martyr
or a lover,
but as the best friend you used to be.