sometimes i wonder if we ever step outside at the same time,
look up into the same sky,
and inhale the same first signs of autumn at the same time,
200 miles and too many missed phone calls away.

during those delicious first few months, your touch
was like a bomb against my skin – blowing away my hard exterior,
opening me up to a life lit with emotional confessions
in hotel bathtubs and the occasional good morning kiss.

your touch now feels a little too nuclear.
i can feel the effects of the poison in the way i view the world,
because i can’t seem to look up in a classroom without
wondering if you might be there.
it feels more sadistic than poignant.

sometimes i wonder if you miss me, if you regret anything you said -
like how i was too feminist, or how i was too heartless,
or how you criticized my outfits rather than telling me i’m beautiful,
and how even in those last few moments we had together,
you tried to pin me inside your box of expectations.

sometimes, i ******* hope i bombed you, too.