There is a hook of another woman’s perfume
hanging from your neck, trailing behind you
like a carcass dragging. It smells of flood
and I am keeping myself from drowning
in her.

I have counted the chairs in your room,
the wrinkles in your sheets and there are extras
for every time she rolled over to ask you
who I was.

Did you tell her?

For anyone else, there would be chances
handed out for every second glance, every
dial tone. For you, there are only choices,
sour and tired from being given away.

Chances and I
have that in common.