Tonight he leaves you with a pile of his favorite CDs;
you dream of loading them onto Noah’s Ark before the flood,
along with his 3 A.M. texts and prescription glasses;
he will talk to you when she is not around,
look directly into your eyes, until your heart cracks
and spills into his palms like a weak egg yolk
ready for the frying pan. Do not wait for his little green Facebook
symbol to light up or you will be up all night.
He will kiss her in front of you, a kiss so deep
it could cut straight to the bone like an interrogator
slowly removing a suspect’s finger with a carving knife.
Shield your eyes and turn away;
pretend you are casually studying the poster on the wall.
You will wonder if her body leaves an outline in his bed
the same way a crime scene is taped off
around the chalked-in edges of the victim,
and still he will call you twenty minutes before midnight
wanting to go out for ice cream
when you end up comparing the best 90’s music
over his kitchen table instead. When he looks at you
across this very same table, stare directly back.
Do not flinch. Do not turn away this time.
Let the tidal wave of his stare wash over you
until it drenches your hair
and he wants to comb out the sadness with his fingers:
let him. Let him.
It will take a while to work through the tangles
but savor this last moment with his fingers
unknotting you like needles, before tomorrow,
when he will go back to her again, bouncing
between the two of you like a yo-yo,
the kind that returns to the owner
then moves on to another when it grows bored.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Tonight he leaves you with a pile of his favorite CDs;
you dream of loading them onto Noah’s Ark before the flood,
along with his 3 A.M. texts and prescription glasses;
he will talk to you when she is not around,
look directly into your eyes, until your heart cracks
and spills into his palms like a weak egg yolk
ready for the frying pan. Do not wait for his little green Facebook
symbol to light up or you will be up all night.
He will kiss her in front of you, a kiss so deep
it could cut straight to the bone like an interrogator
slowly removing a suspect’s finger with a carving knife.
Shield your eyes and turn away;
pretend you are casually studying the poster on the wall.
You will wonder if her body leaves an outline in his bed
the same way a crime scene is taped off
around the chalked-in edges of the victim,
and still he will call you twenty minutes before midnight
wanting to go out for ice cream
when you end up comparing the best 90’s music
over his kitchen table instead. When he looks at you
across this very same table, stare directly back.
Do not flinch. Do not turn away this time.
Let the tidal wave of his stare wash over you
until it drenches your hair
and he wants to comb out the sadness with his fingers:
let him. Let him.
It will take a while to work through the tangles
but savor this last moment with his fingers
unknotting you like needles, before tomorrow,
when he will go back to her again, bouncing
between the two of you like a yo-yo,
the kind that returns to the owner
then moves on to another when it grows bored.
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