I filled my gas tank to 33 dollars and 33 cents 
and told you it was for you
because it was your favorite number.
I organized our belongings 
(white t-shirts—books—toothbrushes—
baby, this is where we keep our sweaters)
 as if using the word “our” would embed myself
into what you call home.
I bought flowers from a homeless man
because you are a botany major. 
I wanted to bring them to you,
wilting and loveless, and show you how
 I can nurture something worth saving.
There is a five-finger scar above my breast.
 There is an orchestra on my neck shaped like your pulse
 from all the nights you held me the way
 you only hold something slipping.
There are 6 states
 pressed like stubborn flowers 
between the last time I kissed you and today,
 but you still feel like a sound caught in my throat.